I'll Be Back Soon
by KatZen
Summary: A promise made. A promise to be kept, no matter what. But the situation he is in changes for the worse. Can a Tracy keep his promise and find his way back to his family?
1. A Promise to Keep

**Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. The original characters come from my imagination, and I am certain that belongs to me.**

**AN: don't ask me where this came from, coz I have **_**no **_**idea. It's been in my head for a while, and suddenly decided that it wanted to break free and typed its way into a Word doco. It is a semi tie-in with "The Troublesome Tickets", but it can also be read as a stand alone without too many issues. Another one set pre-Thunderbirds. **

Chapter One- A Promise to Keep

Moonlight bathed the Tracy farmhouse, illuminating a darkened room in a sliver of silver light.

"Scott?" Twenty year old John blinked in the silver glow of the room. "Are you awake?"

"No."

John heaved a sigh and rolled over so that he was facing the silhouette of his one and only big brother. "Are you scared?"

Scott scoffed and turned away from John's probing eyes, not answering the question.

"I am." It took a lot of guts for John to voice his fear.

"I'm not scared, John," Scott said, before dropping his voice to a mumble. "I'm terrified."

John opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the bedroom door creaked open. Wordlessly, Alan, Gordon and Virgil sleepily trooped into the room, plonked down on Scott's bed and curled up beside him.

"OK, what are you guys doing in here?" Scott asked, feeling overwhelmed, yet flattered by the attention.

"Nightmare, Scotty," whispered Alan, burrowing his head into a pillow.

"What was it about?"

"You didn't come back," Alan replied, choking back a sob. "Or if you did come back, you came in a coffin."

Scott hugged the eleven year old close to him. "Alan, look at me." Blue eyes met blue eyes. "I am coming back. I am not going to die. I promise, I am coming back."

The blond eleven year old nodded and snuggled down under the covers, somewhat reassured. If Scott promised he was coming back, he would be coming back. There was no doubt about it.

"Virg, you OK?" Scott asked.

The only semi-coherent response he got from the half asleep eighteen year old lying at the foot of his bed, was something along the lines of "yeah, yeah, shnowrag."

Scott diverted his attention to Gordon.

The sixteen year old red-head shrugged. "Couldn't sleep without Virgil's snoring. The room was too quiet."

Scott raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment further. "Get some sleep, Red. You've got school tomorrow."

Gordon acquiesced and curled up close to Alan.

Slowly, the three boys drifted off to sleep, Virgil's snores resounding round the room.

"You shouldn't have done that, Scott," John berated quietly.

"Done what?"

"Make a promise you know you have no control over."

"John, this is a promise I can keep."

"How can you say that?" John shook his head incredulously, a note of panic evident in his voice. "You don't know what's going to happen over there! You have no control over what's going to happen! You are not omnipotent! You are not omniscient either!"

"John, I'm not going die because I have too much to live for."

Silence fell between the two brothers until John broke it.

"Are you and Dad still arguing?"

"Nope."

"That's good," John sighed in relief.

"To argue, you actually have to be talking to each other."

* * *

The sun broke through the cloud cover just two hours after dawn and streamed into the Tracy farmhouse kitchen. It promised to be a beautiful Kansas spring day.

Jeff sat down at the table with a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee, toast and his laptop a few inches away from the mug, headlines burning onto the LCD screen.

"Morning, boys," he greeted as he heard his herd of animals, minus one, hounded into the kitchen.

"Mornin'," they chorused back, busy scraping butter onto pieces of pre-cooked, now cooled, toast.

"How was your night?"

John, Virgil, Gordon and Alan all shared uneasy looks with each other. They all knew that there was friction between their father and the first born son. What caused it still remained a secret.

"Boys?" Jeff prompted.

"It was OK," shrugged John, grabbing a carton of juice from the fridge and pouring some into a glass.

"Ooh, I'd be careful with that, John," Virgil said jokingly. "Scott may have been drinking straight from that. It's probably tainted now."

The change in Jeff's posture was evident. His back straightened, as if someone had strapped him to a metal pole, and his fingers tightened round his toast. His eyes had narrowed slightly even though he was making a tremendous effort to remain as composed as possible.

"It's not the juice carton I drink out of," Scott stated from the doorway, moving to the fridge so he could grab the carton of milk and take a slurp from it.

Shaking his head, Jeff picked up his mug, poured the remaining coffee down the sink, grabbed his laptop and stormed out of the room, not once looking at his eldest.

Bewildered, Gordon and Alan's eyes followed his retreating back, wondering what Scott had done to get their father so upset.

"Sir," Scott called suddenly. "It's eleven am. I'd really like you to be there."

Jeff did not reply as he retreated into the heart of the house.

A meaningful glance was shared between John and Virgil.

"Gordon," Virgil began with the air and tact of a diplomat, "Why don't you and Alan go watch some TV now?"

"What about," Gordon broke off as his stomach rumbled. "Breakfast? It's the most important meal of the day."

John pushed two bowls of cereal into his arms and shunted the red head and blond to the door.

As soon as the door closed behind them, John and Virgil rounded on Scott.

"OK, what was that all about?"

"What was what about?" Scott took another slurp out of the milk carton.

John shuddered at his brother's utter lack of social etiquette. "For pity's sake, use a glass, Scott. Not everyone likes drinking your backwash, you know."

"Your spit's my spit," Scott said, hoping to change the subject.

It did not work.

"Nice try, Scott," John's nose crinkled up a bit. "First of all, your spit is a lot more splashier than mine-"

"Eww," Virgil groaned, face screwed up in disgust at the current conversation. "Can we get off the spit subject? What's happening between you and Dad?"

"We're having one of those arguments."

"What about?" John jumped into the line of questioning.

"Oh, you know, just stuff," Scott evaded lightly.

"This has something to do with today, doesn't it?"

"Always the astute one, aren't you, Virg?" Scott hung his head slightly. "I could never pull one over you, could I?"

"So, you gonna tell us what happened? This feud has been brewing for two weeks. We've had enough."

"You know the time I bailed you out when you were caught driving without a licence or insurance?" Scott asked tentatively.

"How could I forget? Virgil Tracy now has a criminal record."

"That was the evening I was told about this. The day after that, I told Dad."

"Scott," John placed a hand on Scott's shoulder, bracing himself for the answer, "what happened?"

* * *

_Scott stood outside his father's office door, full of nervous energy. To knock, or not to knock, that was the question._

"_You can come in, son," Jeff called out from inside the office. _

_Startled, Scott entered the meticulously tidy room and stood to attention in front of the stained and varnished teak desk. "How did you know I was there?"_

"_Son, I'm your father. I know everything. What's bugging you?"_

"_I, um, I need to talk to you." _

_Jeff placed his pen back in the holder and rested his chin on interlocked fingers. "Well, shoot."_

"_I've been called up. They're sending me out there in two weeks."_

_Fear gripped Jeff like an icy embrace. No. Not to his son. Not when he was still so young. Jeff knew the mortality rate had risen recently in the defence forces due to the humanitarian aid they were providing in war-torn nations. _

_Scott watched his father closely for any giveaway of emotion. _

"_It's part of the humanitarian aid project," Scott continued, hoping this would alleviate some of the fear Jeff held. "No weapons are going to be involved on our part. We are simply there to help."_

"_No. You are not going."_

"_Excuse me?"_

"_You can't go. It's far too risky."_

_Scott just stared at his father, blinking rapidly. He had known Jeff wouldn't take the news well, but he hadn't expected this reaction. 'I guess,' he mused, 'that's what happens when your father doesn't experience active duty during his time with the Force.'_

"_How do you think I would feel, knowing that you may never come back and I could have prevented that?"_

"_I'm there to make a difference!" Scott yelled, arms waving wildly to emphasis his point. "Do you honestly think I could live with myself, knowing I could have made a difference, but I didn't?!" Scott took a few deep breaths to calm himself. "Dad, I will come back."_

_Jeff contorted his face in agony. "You can't say that. I knew a guy who knew a guy who said that. He came back alright. He came back with a smattering of medals, an American flag and a twenty-one gun salute." _

_The silence reverberated around the room._

"_Thanks for the vote of confidence, sir." _

_Biting his lip, Scott turned on his heel and headed to the door. Placing his hand on the handle, Scott twisted round to face his father. "You wanna know something? I wasn't planning on telling you because I knew you'd react like this. Then I realised it would have been a disservice to both of us if I did that. I was hoping you'd show a bit of support. Acceptance, if not support. Guess I was wrong."_

_Without waiting for a response, Scott left the room, closing the door slowly behind him._

* * *

Gordon shovelled some cereal into his mouth as he lay on the worn out rug in the rumpus room, careful not to slop any on the t-shirt he was wearing to school.

"What are they talking about, Gordy?" Alan fished a flake of cereal out of his bowl and threw it at Gordon's hair when he didn't reply.

Irritated, Gordon shook his vibrant red hair. "Can you not do that, Alan? I've just had a shower. And how am I supposed to know what they are talking about if I'm here with you? Idiot!"

Alan's lips immediately morphed from a half smile into an impetuous pout. "Why are you always calling me an idiot?!"

"Because you are one," Gordon replied, without missing a beat.

Alan jumped to his feet, letting the cereal bowl slide and crash on the floor. "I'm NOT an idiot!" Alan yelled with all the conviction of an eleven year old before storming upstairs.

Gordon lay there in sobered silence, wondering what had brought on the change in Alan. 'Guess it's just about today and Scott going,' he thought. 'It's hard on all of us. Alan must have reached breaking point.'

"What was that all about?" Virgil leant in the doorway, only to be pushed into the room by John.

Before he could think of a suitable reply, John opened his mouth and asked, "Shouldn't you be watching the news instead of cartoons?"

John flipped the channel on the TV screen.

"_And in the early morning international news, we have just received word that the five humanitarian workers in the war-torn nation of Bereznik have been executed. _

"_One of the more notorious rebel troops captured the aid workers over a month ago and held them for ransom, until their execution. We must warn you that some of the footage is quite explicit in its nature, and that it may be distressing to viewers." _

"John, change the channel, please," Virgil begged, his stomach performing amazing feats of gymnastics as the TV screen flashed images of bloodshed, carnage, carcasses and general destruction.

John nodded, glancing over at Scott, who was frozen in his seat.

"You know what, John," Scott murmured, rubbing a hand down his worried face, "cartoons might have been a better option."

* * *

The grandfather clock that stood tall and proud in the foyer of the farmhouse chimed loudly at eight, a klaxon summoning three Tracy boys off to school.

Scott and John stood in the doorway, ready to see Virgil, Gordon and Alan off.

"I still don't see why we can't take half a day off to stay with you," Alan spoke to Scott's midriff, hugging the life out of him.

"You can't come because you need to go to school. You've missed enough already."

"And why do we need to go to school?" Gordon asked, lodged under one of Scott's arms.

Scott sighed. Time to issue Standard Response 101 out... again. "Because I said so."

"And why do you get to say that?" Virgil asked, placed under Scott's other arm.

"Because I'm older, taller and wiser."

John snorted, unable to withhold his laughter. "Well, two out of three ain't bad, Scott. Especially for you."

Scott shot John a look that clearly stated 'do not undermine my authority in front of the others.'

John held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just speaking the truth. If you can't handle it, get out of the firing line."

"Duly noted." Scott extracted himself from the group hug. "Now scoot, otherwise you'll miss the bus."

Knowing they had just lost a battle of the wills, Virgil ushered his brothers out the door and onto the outside porch. "Now, you e-mail and call and text us as soon as you get the chance-"

"Snail mail would be more reliable."

"Look after yourself," Virgil continued as though there had been no interruption. "Don't take stupid risks-"

"Do I ever take stupid risks?"

"And stay safe. Well," Virgil amended quickly, "as safe as you can when you're stationed in a war zone."

Scott nodded. "Virg, you know I'll be home soon. You know I'm coming back, don't you?"

"I know you say your coming back. Whether you do… that's a different matter."

"No, Virg. I am coming back. You wanna know why? Because I made that promise to Alan. I made it to all of you. That's a promise I intend to keep."

**AN: if I remember correctly, Bereznik was the country used in the comics, so I used it here. Anyway, please review and let me know what you thought. **


	2. Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Two- Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word

The desk groaned under the weight of the mountain of paper, but the person sitting in the leather executive chair ignored its protest. Jeff Tracy swivelled round and stared out of his open window which overlooked a small paddock.

'If only we could keep elephants in Kansas,' he mused. 'Then the kids would never have to leave home. They would always remain with their parents. Of course, that would mean they would all have to be girls,' he added as an afterthought, letting a dry chuckle escape his lips. 'Somehow, I don't think they'll be too pleased with that suggestion.'

He sighed ruefully as his mind wandered back to his eldest. The Tracy patriarch wished things weren't so strained and tense between them.

But they were.

It wasn't that he wasn't proud of his son, because he was, he was proud of all of them. But something inside him screamed that letting him go was a bad idea. Call it insecurity, call it parental instinct, Jeff felt that if he let Scott go, Scott wouldn't come back again.

On the other hand, if he didn't let Scott go, Scott would leave and not come back anyway.

Jeff was officially sandwiched between a rock and a hard place. It was not a situation he particularly liked.

'Luc, I don't know what to do. If I let him go, I run the risk of not getting him back. But if I don't, the same thing's gonna happen. What do I do?'

* * *

Scott stood at the door, waiting for John to come down the stairs, his patience wearing a bit thin. "John! Get a move on! Shake a leg, man!"

With a grin worthy of Gordon, John scampered down the stairs. Standing in front of Scott, John lifted his right foot off the ground and shook his leg.

"John, what are you doing?"

The blond pulled his best innocent pout, looking like the proverbial angel with his blond hair shining under the lights and blue eyes wide open. "You told me to shake a leg. So I did."

Rolling his eyes, Scott opened the door of the Tracy farmhouse. "Got the car keys?"

"Hang on," John protested, eyeing the stairs hopefully. "Just wait five minutes."

"No. John, he's known about this for two weeks. Two whole weeks. If he hasn't turned up by now, he's not gonna turn up. I guess that's something we both have to live with."

Leaving John standing in the foyer, his mouth gaping, Scott marched out to John's rust bucket of a car. Knowing broaching the subject again was like bashing his head against a brick wall for an hour, John admitted defeat and followed Scott out to the car.

* * *

The clock ticked by slowly, and Alan couldn't wait until the bell rang, signalling the end of maths and the beginning of recess. His blue eyes travelled back from the clock, briefly pausing on the board, looking, but not really seeing what he was looking at.

'Just one more minute,' he thought. 'One more minute until I can get to the computer lab.'

The bell resonated around the demountable classroom, and time suddenly sped up for Alan. He haphazardly threw his books and pencil case into his book bag and, for once, managed to beat his teacher out of the classroom.

He broke into a run, crossing the basketball courts in the blink of an eye and hurried into the main building of his school. Weaving in and out of people, he rushed into the computer lab, relieved to find it practically isolated.

After logging into the network, Alan opened up his email, selected 'new message' and then sat there, staring at the screen. He knew what he wanted to write, he just didn't know how. Taking a deep breath, he poised his fingers above the keyboard, letting them type out of their own accord.

_Hey Scott, _

_How's things?_

So far, so good.

_I really hope you get this email before you go._

OK, this was the part Alan was unsure of.

_You know how you promised you would be back? Well, I'm holding you to that. Consider this my way of noting that it's on the record. In fact, you'd better hold up your end of the bargain, otherwise Gordo and I will get some serious retribution on you. _

Hmm, getting a little bit passive aggressive here.

_Anyways, I just wanted to say good luck and stay as safe as possible. And I will see you WHEN you come back. Not if you come back, WHEN you come back._

_Al. _

Now came the hardest part of all.

Actually sending the message through cyberspace. It would be so much easier to just close the email, and pretend he hadn't typed it out. But, Alan never took the easy way out. He was a Tracy and Tracys always did the right thing, not the easy thing.

Mustering up all the courage an eleven year old could carry, Alan clicked 'send'.

* * *

Gordon sought out Virgil as though he was a heat-seeking missile and Virgil was a vat of volcanic lava.

"Hey, Virg," he called out over the crowd. "Ready to do this?"

"Sure thing." Virgil turned around and faced his friends, "I catch up with you guys later. I promised Gordon I would do something with him."

He walked over to Gordon, who pulled his arm impatiently as he led Virgil down a labyrinth of corridors and into an empty classroom.

"Now, are you sure you want to do this?"

Gordon nodded his head empathetically. "Yes. We have to let him know we're thinking of him."

"You're right. Your phone or mine?"

Gordon grinned ingratiatingly at Virgil. "Already two steps ahead of you bro." He held out his phone to Virgil. "I've pre-composed a message which we could send. Feel free to make any changes and don't forget to add your name at the end."

Virgil scrolled through the message, head bobbing in approval, until he read a particular line. "Gordon? You know I'm going to have to turn you into fish fingers for writing this, don't you?"

Gordon shrugged unapologetically. "He's gonna find out about that sooner or later. Just get it over with. And, if you let him know now, it'll be nine months before he comes back to kill you for that."

"It's going. Scott can never find out that I was the one that painted his remote controlled plane hot pink just under a decade ago. I wouldn't live to see the next day if he did."

Gordon shrugged again. It was no skin off his back if that little revelation stayed or went. "Other than that, did you like it?"

"Gords, I couldn't have texted a better message to him."

* * *

Jeff had returned to slaving his way through the paperwork on his desk. A gentle breeze rolled through the ajar window, tipping a framed photo of him and Scott, from when Scott graduated, face down.

With a sigh, Jeff picked up the frame and placed it upright, before wheeling over to the window and closing it with a slam. Satisfied, Jeff headed back to his desk and picked up his pen, ready to get stuck into his work.

Again, the same photo frame tipped down onto Jeff's work.

Divine intervention. That's what Jeff's mother would have put it down to. Jeff was not going to argue with that. He had asked Lucy to help him and it was clear she was still doing that from beyond the grave.

'But Luc,' his thoughts protested. 'It's too late. I'll never make it. He'll be long gone by the time I get there.'

For a third time, Lucy dropped the photo over Jeff's work pile. The scent of rose water wafted into the room, and Jeff could have sworn he felt a light pressure on his shoulder.

'Alright Luc, you win,' he hoisted himself out of his chair, grabbing his jacket on the way out of the office. 'I'm going.'

* * *

They reached the Air Force Base, and after fifteen minutes of just hanging out, it was time for the parting of the ways for John and Scott.

Not one for displaying public affections, John awkwardly pulled Scott in for a brotherly embrace.

Not one for being the recipient of any kind of affection, Scott gingerly patted John on the back.

"Now," John began, "I'm just going to reinforce what the others have said. Don't take stupid risks, keep your promise to us, stay safe and stay in touch."

"I know, John," Scott reassured. "I know."

Releasing him, John pressed a small six by four glossy into his hands. "Just something for you to have to remind you of us."

Scott looked down at the relatively old photo. It was the last one taken before the tragic avalanche over nine years ago, and it had all the boys surrounding their mother. "It's been a long time," he said, admiring the photo. "I thought Dad threw this out. Never thought I'd see it again."

John shook his head. "Like you, I salvaged many of Ma's things when Dad went on his cleaning rampage."

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

"Looks like that's my call to arms." A small bittersweet smile played on Scott's face.

John nodded understandingly. "And Scott, one more thing. When you're out there, be good."

The bittersweet smile morphed into a cocky one. "John," Scott began, "I'm an Air Force pilot. I'm always good."

With a mock salute, Scott turned around and headed off.

* * *

The black sedan sped into the Base, screeching to a halt. Quickly placing the car into park and pulling the key out of the ignition, Jeff jumped out of his seat, eager to make things right with his son.

He was not met by a crowd of family members. Instead, he was quite isolated, which was very unusual. He had clearly missed something vital.

Then, everything clicked into place, as he saw a military plane head towards the horizon.

They had left. They had left, and Jeff hadn't had a chance to rectify the issue between him and Scott.

Dejectedly, he opened the door to the sedan. As he got in, Jeff twisted around, observing the plane as it travelled further away.

"Son," he steeled himself to say the hardest words known to mankind. "I'm sorry."


	3. Contact

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Three- Contact

Scott unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth. Chewing methodically, he exhaled in relief as he felt his ears pop, adjusting to the change in the air pressure.

"Ya know, Captain's not gonna like that."

Scott turned around to face the person he was sitting next to. "Yeah, well, Captain'll get over it."

"So, whaddya think we'll face out there?"

"Honestly, I don't know. Probably anything and everything. Including," Scott swallowed convulsively. "Snakes."

"Oh my God, you're scared of snakes." The red-head sitting next to Scott stared at him in wonderment. "Lieutenant Scott 'not-afraid-of-anything' Tracy is afraid of a slimy snake!"

"I'm not scared of snakes, Tom," Scott scoffed as manly pride kicked in to defend his image. "I just have a… aversion to them, that's all."

"If that keeps ya warm at night, you keep on tellin' yourself that," Tom joked, chuckling slightly. His laughter died down as he observed his friend's body language. Scott sat ramrod straight, eyes clouded over and thumbs twiddling constantly.

"You're worried, aren't you, Ace?"

"Look around," Scott gestured vaguely with his hand, ignoring the use of his nickname, "and name one person, apart from yourself, who isn't."

* * *

Jeff slammed the car door in annoyance and marched up the stairs leading to the front door. He wrenched it open and forcefully pulled the door shut behind him. The resounding bang heralded his arrival, and John scurried out to meet him.

"I came home and no one was here. Where were you, Dad?" John demanded through gritted teeth.

"Out," Jeff snarled tersely. "I had to clear my head."

"Where did you go?"

It was an innocent question from John, and Jeff didn't mean to yell at John, but all his emotions of annoyance, fear, worry and more than a touch of remorse, came tumbling out from his mouth like a verbal waterfall.

"I went out for a drive! What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?! Now, if you don't mind, I have to attend a video conference with Mr. Kyomoto." Without waiting for a reply, Jeff pushed his way past John and locked himself in his solitary office.

John blinked a few times as his brain tried to process what had happened. "OK," he said eventually with a layer of sarcasm, to no one in particular, "that went well."

* * *

Scott glanced down at his watch. 'We've been on this damn plane for six hours. Hope we get there soon,' he thought. 'Can't wait to stretch my legs.'

It was no joke; at just over six foot two, Scott was becoming incredibly uncomfortable at being crammed into the military's version of 'cattle class'. Levering himself out of the chair, Scott walked up and down the aisle, his muscles thanking his brain in relief.

As he walked, he wished there were windows he could look out of. As a kid travelling on family holidays, Scott had always bagged the window seat so he could stare constantly out of it as the plane moved. And, of course, the window had to be situated right behind the wing so Scott could marvel at the mechanics and engines the plane had on offer.

So, to him, the lack of windows was somewhat… disconcerting, to say the least.

Scott felt the floor of the plane vibrate slightly, and he registered a familiar swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach. The plane was descending. Scott didn't have to look out of a window to know that the plane's steep descent was due to a thick layer of cloud surrounding a mountain range.

Pulling out another stick of gum from his pocket, Scott shoved it in his mouth and hurried back to his seat, preparing himself for a less than smooth landing.

* * *

John lay, belly down, on the varnished and stained floor of the formal dining room. His most prized possession, apart from his family- not that John thought of his family as possessions. It was just the idea of belonging to something had an aroma of appeal to him.

With a slight shake of his head, John turned back to polishing his in-pieces telescope. 'Should be a good night for stargazing. The hole in the roof is fixed, and the weather forecast predicts a clear night.' His mood brightened as he thought about his favourite pastime.

A small vibration coming from his pocket caused John to drop his lens and scramble around for his phone. He glanced at the screen. The number was unidentified. With trepidation, John accepted the call and raised the phone to his ears. "John Tracy speaking."

"Hi, John, it's me."

Those four little words had John sitting up in a flash, his telescope forgotten.

"Scott! You called!"

"Course I did. Why do you sound so surprised?" Scott asked, brow furrowing suspiciously. "Actually, don't answer. I only have a minute of 'contact time' left. Just had to let you know that I'm there, and all in one piece."

"OK, OK, that's good," John said, suppressing a curse as he stumped his toe sprinting up the stairs to Jeff's office. "Just hang on; Dad'll want to have a word with you."

"No, John, there's no time. They're calling us away. I've gotta go now."

John didn't hear Scott's reply, as at that precise moment, he was barging his way into his father's office. "Dad, Scott's on the phone!"

Jeff promptly dropped the stack of papers in his hand, achieved a performance worthy of a gymnast as he vaulted himself over his desk and snatched the phone out of his second eldest's hand. He was that desperate to talk to his first born son.

"Son?"

The only response Jeff heard was the dialling tone.

* * *

"Welcome to hell."

The small group of four that Scott had been stationed with glanced around at that statement. A shadow played on the floor, letting all the spectators see that the speaker was less than whole.

"You have no idea on what they do to you here. I'll tell you what they do. _They take your life away! _Everything I lived for, _they took it away from me._" The voice oozed with seething anger. "But don't worry. You'll find out for yourself. They're always looking for fresh blood."

The shadow retreated back, skulking in the darkness, hidden out of sight.

"Who didja think it was talkin' about?" Tom asked. His voice exposed just how spooked he was from that.

"Hopefully, she was medicated, and it was the drugs talking," the group medical officer, Jessie, offered, trying to settle everyone's nerves.

Without realising it, Scott shot the young medical officer a sceptical look. "Let's just keep moving." Scott ushered the rest of the group down through the labyrinth of corridors that made up a central base. "It would not be wise to be late for Basic Resistance, Defence, Weaponry and survival skills."

* * *

"You are not here to hunt down rebel troops. You are not being trained for that, nor do you have the authority to do that. If you inadvertently capture a rebel group, show them mercy, even though you will be shown none at their hands," General Hansby instructed. It was his job to enforce how important that rule was. "You are here to help in this precariously volatile situation. You are not here to make things worse. Is that understood?"

There was a murmur of assent.

"Is that understood?!" General Hansby roared.

"Yes sir!"

"Good. Now, moving onto other things. There may be a time when you are forced to eject from your plane. Depending on what kind of terrain you land on, your chances and strategies for survival will vary.

"For the purpose of your training, based on where you will be located, we will be informing you of survival tactics, strategies and other information tailored to suit you. Forget almost everything you learnt in your Basic Survival Camp you did before you came here. It's complete rubbish in this case.

"Based on where this group is stationed, the scenario you will most likely find yourself in is stranded in the jungle. Survival is at its toughest there. You cannot be picky or fussy. You have to make do with the best the jungle has to offer.

"The next lesson: cuisine." The General raised an eyebrow, daring them to comment before he continued. "The jungle will not be kind to you. Whatever food it does provide, you take it. You grab it with both hands and you eat it. If it doesn't provide food, tough luck. If it provides non-toxic wild flowers and mushrooms, you pick 'em up and eat it. If it provides you with meat, you eat it, regardless of the kind of meat. It is imperative that you keep your strength up to survive in the wilderness."

Hansby moved behind a table, where a sliver lid covered a plate. Lifting the lid up a bit, he peered inside, a hint of malice glinting through hardened, cold grey eyes. He knew everything about the group he was training, from their names and ranks right down to their likes and dislikes. In this particular group, only one person would have a problem with the meal on the plate. It was up to General Hansby to get that member to face his issues.

"Lieutenant Tracy, come up to the table, please."

With trepidation and an increasing sense of foreboding, Scott made his way over to the dreaded dinner plate on the table.

"Now, Lieutenant, it was a long flight over here. Six and a half hours, wasn't it? I imagine you're simply ravenous after that."

Scott wasn't ravenous. He wasn't even hungry, but it would not be prudent to mention that.

"Bon appetit." Hansby lifted the lid off the plate with a flourish, revealing the dish to the other occupants in the room.

After an eternity, or so it seemed, Scott stammered, "t-t-that's… that's a snake."

"Yes it is. Non poisonous, already dead, what more could you want? Now eat."

Scott's insides writhed and wriggled, squeezed and squirmed. It was a snake. A snake with beady little eyes and scaly skin and other horrors that made Scott shudder against his will. It was a small snake, a dead snake, but still a snake.

'Mind over matter,' Scott thought while taking a deep breath. He peeled off the skin and let it slide out of his fingers before hurriedly taking a sizable bite out of the tail end. Chewing robotically, Scott swallowed the snake bite, hoping, praying, it wouldn't come up again.

'Yeurgh. Snakes. I don't think my mind's gonna get over that matter any time soon.'

The room then burst into applause, and Scott was allowed to sit back down.

"Well done Lieutenant. The last lesson: caution.

"The jungle is a death trap. There are mines and bombs all over the place. We do know that the rebel troops favour mines over bombs, and these are the mines they use most often." General Hansby held a six inch cylinder with a flat disc attached to one end in his hand. "These mines are buried under a layer of topsoil. You won't be able to see them, but you will hear it when you step on one."

The General pressed down on the flat disc, allowing a detached click to resonate around the room. "When you hear this, you must yell 'contact!' to warn others not to approach you. Do NOT step off the mine! Stay on the mine. It may be a fake, like this one, but you don't know that. You cannot afford to take that chance!"

He released the disc and a small hiss of air slithered out of the cylinder. "Not activated mine."

There was a chilling click sound again. "Activated mine."

And a release. "Not activated."

And another click. "Activated."

Sobered silence lingered in the air. It was like a spell, a moment of clarity in a world of chaos and confusion.

"This concludes your briefing session," General Hansby interrupted. "Good luck out there and Godspeed. Dismissed."

* * *

The four newcomers to Bereznik trekked through the long, overgrown grass and weeds across a field, surrounded by rice fields.

They had travelled as far as they could by jeep, bouncing up and down on an unpaved, winding road, until the road ended. From there, they had to make their way to the village they were stationed at on foot.

"Refresh my memory; why didn't Base allow us to fly one plane over to the village? It would have been faster, not to mention, easier," Jessie grunted, lugging some of her medical equipment behind her.

"Coz any unauthorised air traffic that hasn't been screened by the government military is seen as a potential threat to Bereznik, and it will be shot outta the sky. And, our UN approved planes are only to be used in deliverin' food, shelter or medication or defending the community we'll be bunkin' with," Tom called to Jessie, who was about a metre behind him, as he fought his way through thick, vine like grass and weeds. "Plus, our planes are already at the village."

Scott stepped closer to Jessie, snatching a medical kit out of her hand. At her protests, Scott shrugged unapologetically, simply telling her that it would be easier on her if he carried the kit.

"You, Lieutenant Tracy, you are a lifesaver," she gushed, flexing the aching joint in her elbow as she continued to battle her way through the field. "No, you're more than that. You're an angel. Really, you are. If you keep this up, carrying my stuff, I mean, I think I might just fall in love with you."

She paused. Jessie knew Scott well enough to realise that something was wrong. Normally, Scott would have interrupted her ramblings with a small coughing fit or with, "please stop, Jess. You're starting to embarrass me."

This time, he didn't.

Jessie pivoted slowly, taking in her surroundings as she pushed strands of brown hair out of her eyes. "Scott? You OK?"

Scott was not OK. He was nowhere near OK. He could have sworn he heard something. Something that sounded like a distinct click.

"CONTACT!"


	4. Home Sweet Home

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Four- Home Sweet Home

Virgil snuck down the stairs, into the kitchen, on the hunt for John's secret stash of chocolate. Man, it hadn't even been a day and he couldn't believe how much he missed Scott. He felt kind of hollow, incomplete. Maybe he should couple the chocolate with some ice-cream. That would help.

"You're not gonna get my chocolate. I've moved it."

Virgil pirouetted on the spot, causing John to giggle. "What, pray tell, is so funny?"

John shook his head, broke off another slab of chocolate and placed it on his tongue, allowing it to melt into sticky bliss. "Nothin'," he mumbled, trying not to choke. "Just a bit of pre-uni madness."

"John, I'm warning you, I'm cranky and crabby when I'm sleep deprived and hungry. It's not pre-uni madness, because you're going back today. Pre-uni madness would have occurred a week ago. So, what is so amusing?"

"It's just, when you span around like that, you looked like you were a ballerina."

"Very funny, John," Virgil deadpanned as he sat down on a chair.

"Why're you up late?" John's eyes flicked over to the clock on the wall. "Or early, depending on which way you look at it?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"You're worried about him, aren't you, Virg?"

"No, yes, maybe. There _has_ to have been more to the call you told us about. I honestly don't believe Scott would've said, 'hi, I'm here, bye.' It's too… short. Even for Scott. And he's Mr. Straight-to-the-point."

"That was all he said, Virg. Dad didn't get a chance to talk to him. The call was that brief," John reiterated.

Virgil shrugged his shoulders, conceding defeat. "I'm probably making a mountain out of a molehill. No news is good news, right? I'm certain Scott's fine. He has to be fine."

* * *

Jessie moved back towards Scott.

"NO! Stay where you are, Lieutenant Whittaker!" Scott frowned heavily as she ignored him. "That's an order, Second Lieutenant!"

Groaning in frustration, Jessie stopped in her tracks. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna stay on the mine. I have no intention of blowing myself up into smithereens. Just stay where you are."

He glanced uneasily, looking at the surroundings, but really drinking it in for the first time. Dense tree lines bordered rice fields, enclosing an area where no sunlight could penetrate through the plant life, in all directions. There could and would be all sorts of things lurking in the obscure darkness; spiders, mosquitos, snakes and guns.

"Ace, are ya sure?"

"Am I sure of what, Tom?"

"Are ya sure you're on a mine?"

"Yes! No! I don't know!" Scott replied frantically. Swallowing, he pushed the panic that rose up in his throat like vomit down into the pit of his stomach. "There may even be nothing under my foot, but honest to God, I heard a click."

Tom moved backwards towards Scott, ignoring his shout of protest. "Don't tell me to stay away, Lieutenant Tracy! Do not tell me to stay away! Remember, you're a First Lieutenant; I'm a First Lieutenant. I rank you, which means I can disregard whatever you say. And since I'm older, I'm callin' the shots."

Scott snorted in disgust as his colleague made his way closer. "You son of a gun! I can't believe you just pulled the age card over me! That's not playing fair."

"Since when do I play fair? Look, you're the second youngest here; it's not that hard to pull the age card on ya." Tom reached Scott and dropped to the ground. Lifting up the topsoil, Tom glanced underneath, before dropping it like it had burned him and standing upright. "There is definitely something under your foot. Whether it's real or fake, I don't know. There's only one way to find out and I'm ordering ya to stand still."

Scott cursed. "Tom," he ventured finally, "what do you see out there?"

"Trees."

"Anything beyond the trees?"

Tom shook his head. "Nope. Not a thing. Not a damn, damn thing."

"Exactly. That has me worried."

"Why?"

"Because," Scott explained slowly, "if we see nothing, it means there's something, or someone, hidden there."

All at once, bullets flew through the air. The dense jungle lit up at regular intervals, reminding Scott of a fireworks display made up of reds and yellows.

"Company! Get down! We're under attack!"

Scott felt someone tug sharply at his leg, and he dropped to the ground. "Tom, take the others and get out of here. I'm not gonna let you guys stay here and get shot because of me. Not on my watch."

"No. We get there all together or we don't get there at all. You know, there's still the possibility of it being a fake," Tom tried to reassure Scott.

Behind them, there was a deafening explosion. A bullet had struck a mine.

"You think?"

"Not so sure now, but yeah, I do think that."

Scott shook his head again, not daring to believe the thing he had stepped on was a fake. "I don't. Listen, get outta here and get to the village. It makes sense. Even when they do stop firing, I'll still be stuck here."

"Nope. Not doing," Tom stated with finality. "Can you hear that?"

"What am I supposed to be hearing?" Scott asked, uncertain.

"Silence. They've stopped firin' at us."

Scott wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. "What a relief. Now go!"

Tom felt Scott push him away, and he conceded defeat. Picking up the discarded medical pack, Tom headed back to the others. "Has anyone contacted Base for advice?"

Jessie nodded. "Newbie did."

Tom focused a laser beam stare on the dishwater blond standing in front of him. "What did they say, Sarah?"

"They don't hold out much hope. They recommend we leave here while we still can. The three of us."

"Fine," Tom spat out, unable to disobey a direct order from Base. "But someone needs to tell Ace."

"I'll do it," Jessie volunteered. She rummaged around in her medical boxes, looking for a bottle of water. "He'll need it. Stop him from dehydrating."

Ever so carefully, she made her way back to the statue still pilot, frozen on a mine. "Hey, Ace, how you holding up?"

Scott shrugged in a non committal reply.

"You need a drink?"

"No."

Scott had lied. He did need a drink. His mouth was parched and every time he swallowed, his throat felt like it was on fire. But, he wasn't going to let her waste precious resources on him. Especially as it seemed that his own death was nearing.

"Base is ordering us to leave."

"And so they should. You're in more danger if you stay in one spot for too long. You need to get to the village. That's our objective. You must get there, even if it means leaving me behind."

Jessie gaped at him, astounded at Scott's matter-of-fact tone. "What're you gonna do?"

"As soon as you guys are at a safe distance, I'm stepping off the mine. If it's fake, like Tom thinks, you'll know."

"And if it's real?"

"Well, you'll know that too. Now skedaddle."

Scott stood there, watching as the three figures walked away, growing into nothing but silhouettes in the distance. It was now or never. Scott dragged his right foot forward as his left foot stayed glued to the spot.

Screwing up all his courage, Scott lifted his left foot off the ground, waiting for the almighty detonation that would propel his body across the field, and probably kill him at the same time.

It never came.

After an eternity of processing the situation, Scott began to chuckle. Softly at first, but it grew louder and louder. He simply couldn't believe his good bad luck.

Scott's luck was good in the sense that the mine was a fake, and hadn't exploded. Scott's luck was bad because he had to step on it in the first place.

Without wasting any more time, Scott hastily scrambled back to his group, extra wary of any more hidden surprises.

* * *

Breakfast. The most important meal of the day, which must be eaten without fail. That was what he had hammered into his sons. Yet, for some reason, he couldn't follow his own rule.

Jeff stirred at his wheat flakes drowned in milk and frowned heavily. His stomach clenched uncomfortably as he unsuccessfully tried to shove a heaped tablespoon in his mouth. He knew why he couldn't eat; he just didn't know how to rectify the problem.

He had lost his son's respect. Why would Scott hang up on him? Jeff had lost his respect, and the one thing that mattered to Jeff was having his sons support, trust, love and respect.

"Dad, it will be OK." Alan had sidled up to Jeff and placed an arm around his shoulder, misinterpreting Jeff's actions and expression. "Scotty promised me he was coming back. And Scotty always keeps his promises, doesn't he."

Jeff thought back to eons ago. He thought back to Scott's last promise to his mother. The promise that he would always look after them and look out for them.

Jeff reflected on how Scott had taught Alan to ride his bike, how he helped Alan with his homework, how he would wake up early on Sunday just to watch cartoons with him.

Scott had taken Gordon swimming every Saturday afternoon and attended his swim meets. One time, Scott even attended Gordon's parent-teacher evening because Jeff couldn't make it.

Scott was the one who would drive Virgil to his piano lessons if it was raining. Scott was the one who would spend hours on end just watching Virgil paint.

Scott was the guy who took John camping in the woods so that they could star chart. Scott was the person who taught John how to drive. Scott was the guy who would just talk to John about anything and everything, from politics to current affairs to books they had just read.

Scott had kept his promise, simply by doing day to day things Jeff didn't do.

"Dad?" the blond eleven year old prompted. "Does Scott keep his promises?"

"Yes, Al," he reassured wrapping the boy in a hug, "he does."

* * *

"How many more miles do we have to go?"

"Less than a quarter. We're nearly there."

"Good, coz this heat's startin' to get to me."

"Don't complain. At least you three didn't have to eat raw snake."

"Aww," Sarah slung an arm around Scott's shoulders. "You really hate snakes, don't you?"

"Just an aversion, Newbie."

Sarah's eyebrows knitted together. "Why does everyone call me Newbie?"

"Because you're the newest member of the group," Scott explained as though it was obvious.

"I hate being Newbie, though."

"Don't hate it. As long as you've got a name, you fit in. You're one of us. Part of the group. We've needed a ground strategist like you for a while now. So, go on, Newbie, what else did you want to know?"

"Why? What caused your," Sarah drew imaginary quotation marks in the air, "aversion to snakes?"

"My little brother caused it. He's a prankster, but sometimes he takes his jokes way too far." Scott paused, wondering how he could tell the tale without sounding like a complete idiot. He couldn't, so he had to settle for evading the subject. "It's a long story."

"We have time."

"You're not letting this go, are you, Sah?"

"Nope. So spill."

"Fine. As you probably know, I grew up on a farm. Umm, I was fifteen, I think, and it was a few days before April Fools Day. Anyway, I was working on the farm, just tending to the fields, checking on the crops, and I come across this snake. It was a black rattler."

Sarah whistled lowly at the mention of the snake. She knew that it was one snake no human should intentionally cross.

"So, I wait, because I know it's poisonous and I let the snake slither past me, and carry on. Later, when Gordon- that's the brother in question- asks me if anything happened, I tell him I encountered a snake, because that impresses any ten year old, and I think that's the end of the sordid affair."

"But it wasn't," Sarah interjected with a hint of amusement.

"No. It wasn't. April Fools rolls around and Gordon goes around playing pranks like he's just taken a caseload of drugs that make him high. By eleven he had already mixed up Virgil's paints, switched Alan's clothes with doll sized ones and fooled John into putting salt on his breakfast instead of sugar. I was starting to think that this time, maybe, just maybe, I had escaped Gordon's diabolical little plan.

"No such luck. I was distributing out some stuff Grams had given me and I went to put my stuff on my bed. At this point, John and I were still in bunks, where he had the bottom bunk and I had the top. I dump John's stuff on his pillow and I climb the rungs of the ladder to my bed. The first thing I see is a spiral in the centre of the covers."

"Oh, don't tell me you were freaked out by a rubber snake," Sarah challenged, suppressing a chuckle.

"I was fifteen at the time! Cut me some slack, will ya?" Scott was ready to defend himself until he was blue in the face.

"OK, OK, you weren't the man you are today. I got it. So, go on. Keep goin'."

"So, in retrospect, I probably did the stupidest thing known to mankind, and I decided to pick it up, thinking it was a fake rubber snake. I think you can imagine my surprise when the thing moved. I, um, I threw it across the room and while I was doing that, I lost my footing on the rungs."

"Ouch!" Sarah winced in sympathy. "That's nasty!"

"You said it, Newbie. I don't remember what happened after that, but I do remember waking up in hospital with a lot of staples in my head. Everything after that stemmed from there."

Satisfied, they continued to walk and stumble over protruding tree roots and fallen branches before coming to a standstill.

"We're here."

Tom dropped to his knees. "Can I get a hallelujah?"

Scott rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Get up and stop clowning around, Bambi."

He led the pack towards the body of houses that they were allocated to, eyeing up all the other humanitarian aid workers who were already there. In Scott's opinion, they were relieved at the arrival, yet angry at the intrusion.

"Who are all these guys?" Jessie asked. "I know who they are, I meant, which country do they come from?"

"No idea. But there'll be time for introductions later. They can't have been here that long," Tom said, finding an empty house and poking his head inside.

The house consisted of two bunk beds stuffed into the corner of two walls, a timber table with two matching cupboards and night-tables. It gave a whole new meaning to minimalist style living.

"Dibs on the top bunk!" Jessie called out, throwing her stuff on one of the beds.

"Ditto." Scott followed suit and swung himself onto the mattress, reclining on the vertex. "For the next nine months, it looks like this is going to be home sweet home."


	5. Before the Worst

**Disclaimer: see chapter one. **

**AN: my apologies in taking so long in updating this story. My only justification is that I haven't been one hundred percent well over the past month, missed quite a bit of school and had a lot of work to catch up on, as well as having a creative block in the middle of the chapter. So, my sincerest apologies in not updating in over a month. On with the tale. **

Chapter Five- Before the Worst

"Bambi? You coming? Time to check out our planes."

Tom rolled himself out of his squashed bottom bunk and pulled his boots on, after checking them for spiders and other nasty creepy crawlies. "And after that?"

"Well, New Zealand showed up, so there's a group meeting with everyone else in the mess hall."

"Right. Met the villagers yet?"

"Yep. Some of the kids speak passable English, so they'll help us, as much as they can, with translations. I say kids, but they're nearly teens. Well, I say teens, but they're kinda in between kids and teens."

"You mean tweens. And after that?"

"Trust building exercises between everyone."

Tom nodded his approval at his fellow pilot as they stepped out of the shaded house and into the sweltering and oppressing heat. Even though it was late in the afternoon, a thick blanket of cloud lay in the sky trapping the heat, making the country feel like a sweatbox.

"Sure is hot out here."

"Get used to it, Bambi." Scott strode on, regardless of the beads of sweat that were trickling down his back. "It's gonna be like this for the next nine months. It's not that far. Just past the fence and round the corner."

Tom snorted. 'It's not that far' was Scott-speak for 'it's a helluva way away, so get a move on'.

"I'm serious. We're about a minute away."

"If you say so, Ace."

"I do say so. See?" Scott unlatched the gate of the fence and broke into a run, desperate to see his plane. Tom followed at a more sedated speed.

By the time he caught up, Scott was staring at three monsters, their metallic shine only slightly dulled by the lack of good light. Tom glanced over at his buddy, who was mesmerised at the sight. "Hey Ace," Tom asked innocently, his voice only slightly betraying his amusement. "D'ya four wanna few minutes alone together, or something?"

Scott ignored the jibe and moved closer to one plane in particular. The SX49 was a relatively small plane, but it had a roomy cockpit and boasted the latest instrumentation and controls. It was light, durable, agile and speedy; all the things Scott looked for in a plane. "This," he murmured, running a hand appreciatively over the smooth chassis, "this is one sexy beast."

Tom shook his head. That plane wasn't his style. He preferred the larger, heavier planes that were capable of carrying a larger payload. It was a good thing he was in charge of the B-62CT carrier, primarily used for transportation of food and medicine supplies.

"Bambi, do they allow civil services between humans and machines?" Scott asked with a wistful expression.

"No. And Ace, once ya pop ya eyes back in ya head, we're going to the mess hall."

Again, Scott ignored him, still taken by the sight of the planes. A sharp tug on his sweat soaked t-shirt brought him back to his senses. "Huh? What did you say?"

Heaving a wearied sigh, Tom dragged Scott away from the planes. "You. Me. Mess hall. Now. Got it?"

"Affirmative." Taking one last longing look, Scott quickly dug his heels into the ground. "Hey Tommy, I think I found your plane. Looks like your name beat you here."

He pointed to the B-62CT's painted on emblem. The emblem resembled a deer, with the most prominent features being chestnut brown fur and Bambi like eyelashes.

Tom glared daggers at his so-called friend and suppressed a primal growl.

* * *

Gordon ploughed through the water, cutting a line through the aqua coloured water. He was relieved that Scott had arrived safely, but it wasn't enough to alleviate that niggling voice at the back of his mind. It was a voice that kept telling him Scott wasn't safe where he was.

'Well, duh,' he mused, 'he's in a frickin' war zone. Of course he's not going to be safe.'

What had his dad had told him?

_War does nothing but put innocent lives at risk. _

'Damn straight. And now my brother's in one.' Gordon's train of thought stopped in its tracks, before starting up again. 'Dad was right. Man, is there anything he's wrong about? Of course not. He's Dad.'

Coming to an abrupt stop as he approached the guttering, Gordon hoisted himself out of the pool. Towel drying himself, his wet feet padded back to the changing rooms, ready to get back into his day, somewhat relaxed after his unwind session.

* * *

"Well, this is fun."

"Ya don't say."

"Think we should break the barriers?"

"You offering to do the introductions, Newbie?"

She shuddered, swallowing a mouthful of her cardboard tasting meal. "Hell no. I'm an introvert. You know that." She paused, before beginning to speak again. "On a completely unrelated note, d'you like canned pineapples, Ace?"

"Love 'em."

"Good." She piled the offending pieces of fruit onto Scott's tray.

"Are you afraid of spiky fruits?" he teased gently.

"Not afraid, I just have a… aversion to them," Sarah volleyed back, unknowingly parroting Scott.

"Sure you do."

Their banter was interrupted as a higher ranking officer stood up and cleared her throat.

'Here we go,' Scott thought to himself. 'Introduction time.'

All the heads in the mess hall swivelled round and paid attention to the standing figure.

"As soon as you've finished, you need to place your tray onto the shelved trolleys and congregate outside." She- a captain, Scott observed- was met with several blank stares.

The captain sighed tiredly. "You know what? This is just plain awkward. Look at us! We've segregated ourselves into countries! We've got the people from the Southern hemisphere in the far right hand corner, the Colonial cousins in the left and the leftovers in the middle. Let's try some integration and introductions."

'Yes, that would be a good idea,' Scott thought while schooling his facial expression into one of a blank canvas.

"Well, my name's Joanne Lozarda and I am a captain with the Royal Air Force. I'm not a pilot, though. I'm a negotiator and interpreter. I'm not a stickler for formality under these circumstances; since we're practically family to each other for the next nine months, I'm perfectly happy for you to just call me Jo, but when the Majors and Sergeants come to see the progress we've made, formality is a must."

Jessie scoffed when she heard that, forcing Scott to suppress his laughter. It was a well known fact that the youngest member of their group was the most lax about formality.

"Have you noticed we're the largest group here?" Tom asked quietly. "We've got four people; everyone else has one, two or three."

"Wonderful."

"How 'bout you, America?"

The question jarred the cadre out of their conversation and back into the bigger picture.

"Name, rank and one thing we don't know about you."

"Would ya like to do this?" Tom offered to Scott.

"Not at all, Lieutenant Riley. I believe age before beauty should apply here." Scott kicked the red-head lieutenant on the shin to get him standing. "Go on, spotlight's all yours."

"Alright! Alright!" He glanced around nervously. "Um, well, I'm Tom Riley, I'm a lieutenant with the USAF and… what's one thing ya don't know about me. I haven't got a clue of what to say."

"We call him Bambi," Jessie interjected, fulfilling the criteria.

A yet to be identified person asked why and Sarah responded by telling the person to look at the length of his eyelashes.

"Ah, yes, I see what you mean," the person said as he scrutinized Tom's eyelashes. "I'm Andrew, by the way. Part of the New Zealand Army. Pleased to meet you. And the rest of you are?"

"That's Newbie, a.k.a Sarah. Opposite her is Triple M, also known as Jessie and next to Triple M is-"

"No need to tell us who he is," Andrew interrupted, wide eyed as he stared at the figure. "Pilots all around the world know him. Scott Tracy, your reputation precedes you."

"All good, I hope," Scott chuckled.

"Yeah, it's all good."

"So, who else is with you?" Scott jerked his head towards the other table.

"The blonde one is Richie." Andrew dropped his voice down an octave. "Do not call him Richard, unless you enjoy being covered in treacle and feathers."

'Sounds like a regular Gordon,' Scott thought with a pang in his stomach. Until then, he hadn't realised just how much he was going to miss the infernal prankster. Or any of his brothers, for that matter.

"And the brunette is Lex. Both of them are medical officers and I fly planes," Andrew concluded.

"So we have two interpreters/negotiators/strategists, two pilots and three medical officers," Scott ran off. "Sounds like a good mix."

"Now," the captain's sharp, shrill voice pierced the air. "We need to move on with the trust exercises. The kids have invited us to participate in a team game with them."

"That's a bit backward," Scott muttered.

The captain pierced the lieutenant with her eyes, and Scott felt pressed to rationalise his statement.

"If I was a parent here, and a group of strangers infiltrated my turf, I wouldn't be too keen on sending my kids out to interact with them." Scott held his hands up in surrender as the captain narrowed her eyes further, shooting daggers at him. "I'm just saying, that's all."

"What are we playin'?" Tom asked through a mouthful of cardboard meal, hoping to smooth down Jo's ruffled feathers.

"No idea. Let's go find out."

Abandoning their meals, the military folk walked out into the oppressive heat of the afternoon. In front of them, in the gap between the mess hall and the body of the village, a small field had been set up. About twenty metres apart from each other, sticks had been bored into the ground. Two bats lay next to the sticks, as did a ball, guarded by two boys. It was clear to everyone that the two boys were the ringleaders in this.

"Yeah! Cricket!" Lex cheered, much to the amusement of his colleagues.

"Cricket?" Sarah echoed. "What the hell is cricket?!"

"It's a game where there's a fielding team and a batting team. The two batters on the team have to try and score as many runs as possible before they are out," Lex explained patiently. "Don't worry; I'm sure Jo will explain it better to you colonial cousins."

"Is that supposed to be an insult, patronising or both at the same time?"

Lex ignored Sarah. "So, when are we gonna start playing?"

"As soon as they make the first move." Scott jerked his head in the direction of the teens, who were eyeballing the military figures.

The stand-off continued, until one of the boys picked up the bats and pointed at Scott. "You hit?"

"Err," Scott stalled. "If it's anything like baseball, then yeah, I guess I can hit."

"Good." The boy, who couldn't have been older than fourteen, selected the remaining players for his team and thrust a bat into Scott's arms. "You first."

"OK." Scott marched out onto the field, completely perplexed at what he was supposed to do. Thinking it was similar to baseball; Scott raised the bat and held it at his shoulder height, so he was utterly surprised when the ball bounced below his knee. "Is it supposed to do that?"

Andrew rolled his eyes as he caught the ball. "Yes. Just keep the bat close to the ground, and when the ball heads towards you, swing the bat with all your might."

"Got it. Try it again?"

"Sure."

This time, Scott smashed the ball as soon as it approached him. Dropping the bat like it had burned him, Scott ran at full speed, only to have to turn around, pick up his bat and continue running to the other set of stumps.

The game progressed, with Scott and his friends slowly picking up the rules. After an hour and a half of non-stop playing, it was time for the children to head back into their respective houses. A welcome smile was shared between the parents who had watched the game and the cavalry.

As soon as they were safely ensconced in their houses, Tom turned to Scott and called out in a sing song voice, "we beat ya, we beat ya!"

Scott scowled. "Salt on a wound, man! I'm warning you, Tom, you're going to be treading on _very _thin ice if you keep going on about that!"

"Not the worlds best loser, are you, Scott."

"Well, you're not the world's best winner, either."

"Children, children, play nicely," Sarah interjected as she lay on her bottom bunk. "Changing the subject, what do we have to do tomorrow?"

"Erm," Scott stalled slowly. "I know we need to pick up syringes and vaccines, more food supplies and things like that. Then, I think we're working on worst case scenario contingency plans."

"So, it's a long day?"

Scott nodded, climbed up onto his lumpy mattress and rolled onto his side so that he was facing the wall. "Mind you, every day is a long day now. Just gotta get through the nine months and make the most of the time we have here."


	6. Strange Gut Feelings

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: fast-forwarding a bit so that we can start the action going. So, this is set five months into Scott's tour of duty.**

Chapter Six- Strange Gut Feelings 

"By the way, Virg," John's voice filtered through Virgil's laptop speakers. "I heard from Scott again. It's been a while, but you know how sporadic he can be in contacting us."

Excitement mingled with hurt and jealousy in Virgil. He wondered why Scott called John and no-one else. Why hadn't Scott called him as well? Was he, Gordon and Alan not as important as John?

"He seems OK. His voice sounds a little hoarse, but other than that, he's OK." John noticed the flash of envy and lanced across Virgil's face as he said that. "Virgil, is everything good with you?"

"Hmm? Oh yeah, everything's fine," Virgil lied through gritted teeth, hating himself for it.

"Because you know you can talk to me about anything, Virgil. I…" John faltered, before carrying on. "I know I'm not Scott, but I'm still your brother and if something's wrong, I would like to help. I may be able to help."

Virgil suppressed the growl that threatened to escape his lips. Scott, again. Did this whole conversation have to revolve around the absent older brother?

"Are you sure everything's good?" John pressed.

"_Yes John_. Can we change the subject please?"

John held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Don't get your boxers in a knot." John peered through the screen. "Virgil?"

"Yes?"

"You know I'm coming back from Harvard in a couple of days, don't you?"

"Yes. For my nineteenth," Virgil stated proudly.

"Have you seen the state of your room?"

Virgil's head rotated to the ever-growing pile of laundry that was scattered on the floor, the mound of moulding food and the clutter of soldering materials, pliers, wires and wire strippers on the floor. Not to mention all the other items that lay on the floor, since there was no room for Virgil to stuff them in already overflowing drawers.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Virgil smiled sheepishly. It almost appeared to be a guilty smile.

John's ice-blue eyes narrowed through the LCD screen. "If your room is still like that when I come back," he threatened, "birthday or not, I will personally kick your ass from there to Timbuktu."

* * *

Scott hopped on one foot as he pulled his flight suit on, mentally gearing up for a flight.

"Whatcha doin'?"

Scott spun around stupidly on the spot, startled by the voice. "For God sake, don't sneak up on me!"

"Sorry. Whatcha doin'?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Jess?" Scott pulled on his aviator shades and stared at her.

"Isn't it your day off today?"

"Yeah, but with Tom out for the count, I have to go," Scott explained. "Tom was meant to help Andrew fly the B-62CT to pick up the one-hour-stop aid workers. But since he's got gastro, I'm the only other pilot left."

"Speaking of Bambi, there's something I need to ask you," Jessie said as she pulled out her laptop and turned it on.

"Go ahead."

"I don't think it's just gastro," she stated as she typed up her findings in Tom's medical records. "He should be getting better by now, but he's getting worse. There is something else affecting him, and I can't find what it is with the supplies we have here. I need you to fly him back to HQ and drop him off at their medical wing."

"I can do that." Scott paused. "Are they expecting him?"

"Yeah. I called ahead to let them know he was coming in."

"Great. Well, I'll see you when I get back."

* * *

"Gordy?"

"That's my name," Gordon smiled at his youngest brother.

"Gords, I've got a bad feeling. I don't know why, but I have a bad feeling."

Gordon's senses were instantly on high alert. "What kind of a bad feeling?"

"I dunno," Alan shrugged. "I've had it for a while now."

"How long?" Gordon's curiosity was piqued.

"Ever since Scott left," Alan admitted. "The nightmares are getting worse too."

Gordon was inwardly relieved. He hadn't been able to shake that bad feeling, so it was comforting to know he wasn't the only brother who had that. Without saying a word, Gordon pulled Alan into an awkward teen hug.

"Gords, what does it mean? We haven't heard directly from Scott in ages, we've both got weird feelings and my nightmares are worse. Is there any connection between them?"

"I don't think so," Gordon mumbled into Alan's hair, unwilling to give his little brother false hope. "And hey, no news is good news, right?"

Alan looked doubtful. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to believe Gordon. "If you say so, Gords."

* * *

The engines of the plane whirred quietly as the passengers escaped the oppressive heat by entering the plane and the pilots completed their last minute checks.

"Flaps?"

"Check."

"Think Riley's gonna be OK, Ace?" Andrew asked. "Hydraulic fluid?"

"Course he is. The idiot has had worse before." Scott glanced down at his control panel. "Three quarters full."

"Main gear?"

"Locked and in position."

"Emergency exits?"

"Locked and secured. We are ready to roll."

"Excellent," Andrew grinned and began to taxi towards the runway. "Ace, do you want to do the honours? If you do, make it comedy. I need a laugh today. Relieve the stress and tension and bad gut feeling I have. We all need that."

"Do I ever want to do the honours!" Scott returned the grin and activated the intercom between the cockpit and the cabin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of both pilots, Lieutenant Hansen and Lieutenant Tracy, I would like to welcome on board today's flight. If you are flying to the village of Ramutan, you have come to the right place. If you aren't, well, you're in for a long flight.

"I'd like to point out some important safety features of this plane. In the unlikely event that this plane crashes in water, your seat can be used as a floatation device. It'll last a lot longer than the life jackets.

"We also have six emergency exits on this plane; two at the front, two at the back and two on the wing. If you are sitting in an emergency exit row, please, don't store bags by your feet. That would be a really bad idea. On the floor, you'll notice we have installed pretty blinking lights for your convenience. The white ones indicate the way out of this plane, and the awesome red ones mark an exit.

"In the event of loss of cabin pressure, you will notice flappy things that drop down from the ceiling. Even though they make you look like Donald Duck, we recommend that you put them on as soon as they drop. The bag at the end of the mask won't inflate, but there is oxygen in there… promise. Put your own mask on before assisting those who are behaving like small children. If you are travelling with close friends or family members, please take a moment to decide which one is your favourite. Help them out first, and work down from there.

"There is no smoking allowed on this flight. There is also no smoking allowed in the lavatories. If the cabin crew, my colleague, or I, see smoke coming from the lavatories, we will assume you are on fire and we will put you out. No exceptions. This is a free service we provide. We do have smoking sections on this flight; one outside each wing exit. We also have a movie screening in the smoking section – Gone With the Wind.

"In a moment, we will be turning off all cabin lighting for take-off. If you are afraid of the dark, please push the yellow button above your head. That will turn on your reading light. Please don't push the blue button. That is your seat ejection button, and pushing it now would be a really bad idea.

"Thank you for your attention, and we hope you have a pleasant flight."

Scott broke the connection, only to find his companion in a fit of hysterics.

"Ace, that was one of the funniest in-flight safety announcements I've heard in a while! I absolutely _loved _the smoking section part. Mind if I borrow it sometime?"

"Sure you can borrow it," Scott replied, placing his hand on the thrusters. "And of course it was funny. You asked for comedy, so I gave them comedy."

Andrew chuckled a bit more, slowing down as he saw a light flashing on his control panel. "Scott?"

"That's my name. Don't wear it out."

"You know HQ were listening in on that, don't you?"

Scott's eyes went as wide as saucers. "Damn!"

"Scott?"

"Yep?"

"They're still listening."

"I'm really in it now, aren't I?" Scott groaned as they powered down the runway and lifted into the sky. "I just told everyone that they could party on our wings if they have to. Base doesn't take that kind of thing as a joke."

"Relax. What's done is done. The worst that can happen is that you'll be placed on probation."

The flight progressed smoothly for the first hour, and both pilots were beginning to relax, anticipating the end of the day.

However, their relaxation was short lived.

Several shrill alarms rang at once, snapping both pilots into what was known as action-mode.

"What're we dealing with, man?" Andrew asked, taking the plane of autopilot and manually controlling it.

"No clue yet," Scott replied, his hands dancing over the control panel, activating the seatbelt sign and displaying the radar. "Looks like a missile. A high speed, moving projectile." Realisation dawned on Scott. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no! Hansen, get us down."

"What?!" Andrew registered the use of his surname and stared at Scott as though he was crazy. "We can't just drop! We'll have to equalise the cabin first."

"Drop us! Now!" Scott couldn't hide the unadulterated panic in his voice. "We have a heat seeker on our tail!"

It was Andrew's turn to curse now. "Right. Dropping oxygen masks and lowering plane from cruising altitude to a thousand feet."

They waited with bated breath, waiting to see if their evasion tactic worked.

It hadn't.

The missile was following them with a vengeance, until it eventually struck its target.

The impact shook the plane, and was a catalyst for a fire that broke out in the tail section of the cabin.

"Oh, Hansen, we've been hit!"

"Ya think I don't know that?!"

"We've got a fire. Temperature in the tails rising. We've gotta get down now. Too many lives at risk if we don't."

With grim determination, Andrew and Scott pushed forward and pulled back on the steering column.

"Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad! Impact's destroyed the wiring. We have no control of the plane!" Andrew yelled. "Did I mention how bad this is?"

"Several times," Scott grunted, still desperately trying to pull the nose of the plane up to slow it down.

It was not working.

The terrain grew bigger and sharper as every second passed.

"Ground impact imminent! Assume brace positions!" Andrew yelled though the intercom at the last moment, as the plane hit the ground and splintered into several pieces.

* * *

Minutes later – or it could have been hours – Scott felt himself being shaken awake.

"What happened?" he asked, rubbing at his throbbing head. He grimaced when he felt a pool of blood at his temple. "Mmm. Tasty."

"We were shot outta the sky," Andrew explained, gingerly crawling out of his seat to check on his buddy. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I think so. Nothing Jess can't fix up once we get back. You?"

"Oh, just the usual impact injuries. Sore ribs and collarbone, minor cuts and plenty of abrasions. I'll live. Now, how about we get out of here before something else… goes… wrong." Andrew turned around and remained as still as a statue. "Scott, whatever you do, don't turn around."

"Why not?" Curiosity got the better of him, and Scott gingerly twisted his head around.

It was a bad move.

He was now staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.


	7. A 'Happy' Birthday

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Seven- A 'Happy' Birthday

The summer sun streamed through the dense curtains in Virgil's room and gave the walls a slight amber glow. He stirred in his sleep because of the intrusion the light caused. Not to mention he had the feeling he was being watched.

"Whoev'r it is, go 'way," he slurred out drowsily. "Come back once I've had a double shot of coffee."

"Oh, it looks like the birthday boy is in a bad mood."

"Are you sure he's turning nineteen and not nine?"

"I can't believe I came home to that reception."

Groaning, Virgil rolled over and stuffed his head under his pillow. "If I can't see you, you are not here, and I can sleep."

"Not a chance."

The pillow was yanked away from his head and Virgil stared beadily at the thief. "Gordon!"

"It wasn't me! The devil made me do it!" Gordon protested, pointing at Alan.

"What?!" Alan protested, annoyed at being compared to the devil.

"You asked if he was nineteen or nine," Gordon explained. "I had to go in and check! And incidentally, I think both ages were wrong about the fossil's age."

"Fossil?" Virgil repeated slowly, eyeing Gordon the way a predator would eye prey. "Fossil?!"

Gordon nodded, and chewed on the skin of his thumb.

"Don't do that." Virgil pried the hand away from Gordon's mouth. "It's bad for you. It's the first sign of human cannibalism."

"Ewww!" Alan shrieked, scuttling away from Gordon and heading to Virgil. "Gordon's a cannibal!"

Gordon turned to John. John shook his head and collapsed on Virgil's bed. "Nuh-uh. You're not coming _anywhere _near me!"

"And don't even think of sitting on my bed, Gords," Virgil added. "My bed is a cannibal free zone."

Gordon pouted and slouched away. "Darn it. I had such a good food supply." He popped his head around the door. "By the way, Virg, Grams is back. She's down in the kitchen."

* * *

A sharp slap around his face drew Scott back into consciousness. Cheek smarting, Scott instinctively tried to raise his hand to the angry, red area. His hands had been bound together.

A wave of anger and humiliation washed over him as he realised he had been stripped of his uniform.

He had been stripped of his rank.

He had been stripped of his identity.

He had been stripped of his pride.

"So nice of you to join us, Lieutenant," a chilling voice whispered over the silence.

Scott blinked, confusion racing through his pounding head. What did they mean by that? How long had he been here? What had he said, or not said? What had they done to him?

"Are you ready to tell us what we want to know?"

Scott remained silent. What did they want to know? He had no clue. He couldn't remember what had happened since he had been captured.

His silence spoke volumes. The captor's henchmen shoved a bag over his head and then pushed his head into a tank of ice-cold water.

Scott couldn't breathe. He was suffocating.

_Water torture. I hate water torture. Ouch! It burns!_

They grabbed the back of his neck and yanked his head roughly out of the tank. The paper bag had peeled away, letting Scott feel like she could breathe freely again.

"Changed your mind, Lieutenant?"

"What do you want to know?" Scott croaked out.

"Tell me about the government. Tell me their plans. Tell me how many of my men they have captured. Tell me what they do to my men. The men they capture. I know you know."

"I don't know! I don't know anything that's related to the government! I don't know their plans; I don't know how many people they've captured! I don't know anything!"

"Sure you don't," the owner of the chilling voice crooned, moving closer to Scott while stroking a metal tipped whip. "Care to change your mind?"

Without waiting for an answer, the nameless captor struck again, the whip slashing across Scott's other cheek.

"I told you," Scott ground out. "I don't know a thing."

A sucker punch to the ribs, this time. Scott could already feel the swelling forming.

"Tell me!"

"I've told you!"

Another sucker punch to the ribs. And then the captor delivered the knockout punch. Making sure his victim was unconscious, the captor beckoned the two henchmen closer.

"Place him with the others. Sooner or later, he'll break and talk."

* * *

"Happy birthday, Virgil!" Grams exclaimed, stirring her pancake batter.

Virgil smiled warmly and gave the elderly lady a peck on her cheek.

"So, how does it feel to be nineteen?" Grams asked in the way only a grandmother could.

"I'm not actually nineteen yet, Grams," Virgil pointed out. "Not until six thirty four in the evening."

Grams tutted. "Stop getting so technical, Virgil."

"Sorry Grams. In answer to your question, according to someone," Virgil glared pointedly at Gordon, "I'm so old I can feel dementia and arthritis setting in."

Gordon shrugged. "I never said that, exactly."

"Sure you didn't," John drawled slowly, taking over at the stove. He flipped the pan and tried to catch it in the pan. He missed, and the piping hot pancake fell on the back of his hand. "Ouch! That hurts! Hey Dad, you wanna pancake?"

Jeff's brow furrowed behind the newspaper he was hidden behind. "John, the right way to ask that would have been Dad, would you like to eat a pancake, and since it's you flipping, no thank you. I'd rather not risk it."

"Oooh," the boys chorused together, "Johnny's been insulted."

"OK. Your loss." John turned to the sink and stuck his burnt hand under the cold stream of water.

"No son, my gain," Jeff chuckled jokingly. He watched John pout and turn away. "Anyone want to get that?" he asked, nodding to the sound of the door chime.

"I will," Virgil volunteered. "And Dad?"

"Yes birthday boy?"

"The correct way of saying that," Virgil parroted, "would have been, does anyone want to get that?"

Before waiting for an answer, Virgil strode to the front door and opened it. He was surprised to see two men, dressed in Air Force blues standing in front of him, sombre expressions plastered onto their faces.

* * *

This time, when he woke up, he saw the blurred, out of focus shape of people's feet. He shifted, wincing as immense pain seared through his ribcage.

_Broken, not bruised. Damn, it hurts._

"Are you alright?"

Scott could only groan in response.

"Leave him."

"Rex," the voice pleaded, "he's hurt. They've hurt him. They _tortured _him. I have to try and do something."

"Leave him," the one called Rex spat out venomously. "He's not one of us."

"Yet." The figure ignored Rex and knelt down by Scott. "Here, let me have a look at you."

The figure rolled Scott over gently, but that didn't stop a hiss of agony escaping his lips.

"How long have I been here?" Scott slurred drowsily.

"Judging by the bruising," the voice replied as hands danced lightly over Scott's battered torso, "I'd say two, maybe three days."

Scott cursed under his breath.

"What's wrong?"

Scott looked up at the figure, his blue eyes glowing ethereally in the darkened cell. "It's my brother's birthday today."

* * *

"Mr. Tracy," the Air Force officer began, uneasily eyeing the Tracy sons. Damn, the youngest one couldn't have been older than twelve. That made his task easier. "Perhaps we should conduct this in private."

"No." Heads turned to stare at John and Gordon. "We're his brothers too," they explained. "If something's happened, we have a right to know."

"No, you don't," Jeff countered immediately. "Gordon, Alan, I want you out of here now. John and Virgil, you're both adults. You're welcome to stay if you want to." Jeff stared at the Air Force officials, daring them to challenge his orders. They didn't.

"But Dad!" Alan whined.

"But nothing, Alan. Go!"

Grumbling about the unfairness of it all, Alan and Gordon traipsed up the stairs and into their room.

"Now, what's the purpose of your visit?"

"Mr. Tracy…" one officer swallowed convulsively, while the other found the tessellations on the carpet the most interesting thing in the world. How could they say this in the most sincere way? They were about to deliver the worst news anyone could hear.

"Yes?"

Taking a deep breath, the braver of the two officials ploughed on. "We regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Scott Tracy, has been reported missing, presumed killed in action."

**AN: just to let you guys know, I've got two sets of major exams coming up (yep, that time of year again), so I may not be updating as frequently over the next two months. Sorry about that, but I will try to update when I can.**


	8. A Promise Broken

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Thanks for the reviews. I'm terribly sorry I wasn't able to reply to all of them, but each and every one was greatly appreciated. **

Chapter Eight- A Promise Broken

Jeff scoffed and turned his head away, not believing their words. "What kind of a sick joke is this? I think I would know if my son was dead," he challenged once he found his voice. When the representatives didn't reply, Jeff thundered on. "Do you know what it's like for families who have a son or a daughter out there? Do you know that this is the kind of thing they dread hearing? Do you?!" He leapt off the sofa and paced the floor. "I want to know the names of your commanding officer. This sort of thing is insubordinate and completely inappropriate!"

"Mr. Tracy," the braver of the two officials began, "this is no joke."

Reaching into a pocket, the officer pulled out a small wooden box and pressed it into Jeff's hands. "We received this in the mail yesterday. I'm so sorry."

"What is it?" John finally spoke out.

There was silence. No-one was willing to answer John's question.

"What is it?" repeated John. "Dad? Please, just tell me what's in the box."

With downcast eyes, Jeff opened the box. He knew what would be in there, but he had to see it for himself.

A small pillow lined the base of the box. On the pillow lay two of Scott's most valuable possessions; his pilot wings and…

"His dog tags," Jeff whispered huskily, letting the fine beaded chain slip through splayed fingers like water. It was proof positive that Scott had really… gone. No-one in the defence force would willingly give up their identification tags. And no pilot in their right mind would consciously allow their wings to be snatched away from them. Especially not someone as diligent and possessive as Scott.

"No," John mouthed, aghast. "No."

"Mr. Tracy, Lieutenant Tracy," the second one began, pausing and correcting herself to make it more personal, "your son was –"

"Is," Virgil growled.

"– a very singular man. He was loved and respected by his peers and superiors. He will be missed greatly. We felt that you should know that. His comrades, his friends, they're holding a memorial service for him this afternoon."

"When will we get his body?" Jon murmured into his hand.

"You won't," the second officer replied delicately. "In circumstances like this, the chances of recovering a body are remote. Chances are…" she trailed off, not sure whether to carry on. "I'm sorry, but you won't get him back."

Jeff made no indication to show he had heard the conversation. "How did it happen?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy, that's classified."

"Then _un_classify it!" Jeff growled. "I want to know what happened to my son."

"We're not at liberty to discuss that information yet. If we get any information, or new directives, or if there is anything we can do –"

"Yeah, you can get out," Virgil stated venomously. "I'll even show you where the door is. Make sure it doesn't hit you on the way out!"

"Virgil!" John berated.

"He's not dead!" Virgil's pitch rose an octave. "Scott is not dead! I would know if he was dead! He promised!" Unbidden, unwelcome tears began the long trek down his cheek. "Scotty promised us he would come back. Scotty always keeps his promises."

The Air Force officers showed themselves out of the Tracy household, unwilling and unable to intrude on the very obvious grief of this family.

"Dad," John placed a warm hand on his father's shoulder, hoping to ground him. Jeff was staring at the dog tags in his hand, mesmerized by the metallic shine, and he conveniently ignored John. "Dad, how are we going to tell Grams? How are we going to tell Gordon and Alan?"

* * *

"Does this hurt?"

The yet to be identified compassionate captive prodded him not so gently in the ribcage.

Scott gasped at the searing pain. "Broken," he spat out. "Not bruised. They stole my wings and tags."

"Yeah, you're right about that. They took my dog tags too. You've got bruises, lacerations and abrasions by the truck load. There's not much we can do for them here. You need to hope and pray that they don't get infected. Try and keep them as clean as possible."

"Yeah, sure." His face pulled into a puzzled frown. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"Well, would you rather I stop and let you succumb to the pain they inflicted on you?"

"No. But why do you trust me so? Mr. Grumpy over there doesn't."

"Mr. Grumpy is called Rex. And I don't trust you," Rex snarled, "for many reasons. And you shouldn't either, Carla."

_At last! A name!_

"And why shouldn't I trust him?" Carla challenged.

Marching over to Scott, Rex wrenched both his arms away from cradling his ribs. "Look. He's a spy."

"What?! I'm not a spy!" Scott spluttered, amazed at the ludicrousness in that accusation. Carla shared Scott's views.

"Blue Eyes over here hasn't been imprinted or indoctrinated. Look! He has no standard issue stripes. He has no number!"

Scott blinked rapidly. "I'm guessing that's a bad thing."

"It means," Rex snarled again, "they don't consider you a captive. Which means, they want you to work for them. So, excuse me, but I don't feel comfortable trusting you. Since you may be working for the enemy."

"Awesome," Scott groaned, as he remembered the other pilot.

"What?"

"Awesome. Captain Awesome. He was captured with me. Where is he?"

"He's not here," Carla supplied. "You have a captain called Awesome?"

Scott shook his head slightly, seeing stars as his pain receptors screamed against the movement and his headache kicked in with a vengeance. "It's his nickname. He says awesome. A lot. He's really called Andrew. Andrew Hansen. Is he here?"

"No. The only new guy we've seen for months is you. They're either interrogating him or," Carla swallowed distastefully, "they've killed him."

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Scott sighed. Closing his eyes, he welcomed the temporary darkness. Scott was sure it would do wonders for his headache.

His relief was short lived, as Scott was hauled carelessly upright and led by masked men away from the cell he was trapped in.

_From hell to hell. Could this day get any worse?_

* * *

"He's not dead, he's not dead, he's not dead," Virgil repeated the chant like a mantra. Maybe if he said it enough times, Gordon and Alan would believe it as well.

_Gordon took the news surprisingly well. It was almost as if he was expecting something like this to happen. _

It was true. Gordon – often the most emotional Tracy, which was odd in itself – remained impassive as he was told the news. He had been a real wax mask, moulding his face so that there was no emotion showing while he was in turmoil on the inside. He nodded and agreed when his father had suggested that they attend the service at the Air Force Base, and stood in stony silence as his father slumped dejectedly out of the room. It was only once he saw the pilot wings and dogtags in the box that realisation dawned on Gordon. His brother, his big brother, his protector, wasn't coming back. Gordon may not have been the most academically gifted person in the world, but he knew that families of deceased were given their dog tags. Unable to hold in his emotions, Gordon bolted out of the room and into the privacy of the attic.

_Grams didn't take it as well as I thought she would._

Josie Tracy was made of sturdy stuff. She had, after all, raised Jeff and five grandsons, so not much shook her. But this… this was enough to break any grandmother's heart. As soon as she saw Jeff flinging the chain back into the small wooden box, she knew. Her son only confirmed her suspicions. With an audible sniff, she traipsed up the stairs after watching the broken shell of her son leave the room.

_Alan… The poor kid. He's never going to be able to trust anything anyone tells him again. Man, I wish I could make this easier for him. But I can't. _

Alan had stood to attention as his father called him into the room, wariness apparent in his eyes. His bottom lip trembled and wobbled as Jeff hollowly regurgitated the news. Alan couldn't believe it. Scott broke his promise. Sure, Scott hadn't intended to break the promise, but he had. Alan held back the tears that threatened to fall, and like Gordon, he leaned forward to look at the box. After a glimpse of the wings lying on the pillow, Alan sprinted out of the room. Virgil knew why; Tracy sons didn't cry. Well, not in front of company anyway.

"You OK, Virg?"

"He's not dead, John."

"Virgil," John placated.

"He's not!" Virgil insisted. "I would have known. I would have felt it."

John quirked a querying eyebrow.

"It's really confusing. This thing up here," Virgil tapped the side of his head, "it's telling me that there's no way Scott could be alive if we have his prized possessions. But this thing here," his hand moved and rested on his chest, left off the centre, "it's telling me he's alive. It's telling me that I would have been able to feel if Scott was dead. In some way, I think we all would have felt it."

"You should become a psychologist, not an engineer, Virg." John sat down heavily next to Virgil, slinging his arm around his shoulder. "Dad's heading down to the Air Force Base in the afternoon."

"I hope he's getting answers. I hate not knowing what happened," Virgil sighed.

"Me too," John agreed. "There seems like there's a lack of closure without them."

Virgil focused honey burnt laser beam eyes onto John. "Dad's going for the memorial, isn't he."

It was a statement, an accusation, John realised. It wasn't a question, and John knew Virgil expected an answer. Not being able to lie to his brother, John nodded. "Alan, Gordon and I are going too. But, he's also going for answers," John added.

"Good. I'll go too."

"You will?" John stared, wide eyed at his brother.

"I'm going for the answers. I am not attending the service because," Virgil raised his voice so that he was almost shouting, "Scott isn't dead!"

John sat in stunned silence. He had pushed Virgil too far. After an eternity, he wrapped Virgil up in an embrace that was for comfort as well as making sure Virgil would stay put. "Virg, I know you're hurting. We all are. But, the cold, harsh reality of it is, Scott is gone. You saw how Dad reacted when he saw the box. And Dad's been in the Air Force; he knows their procedures and protocol better than we do. He knows that they wouldn't give those items to us unless they were ninety nine percent sure they had received the right information.

"I really think you should attend the service. It could be your only chance of…" John shook his head, unable to go on. "If you won't go for you, do it for Dad, Gordon and Alan. They expect you to go. Don't make this harder for them."

The chestnut haired man exhaled heavily. "Fine. But just for the record, I'm astounded that you accepted the news so quickly. I'm amazed that everyone accepted it so quickly _and _with such little proof. It's like you've been waiting to give up on him!"

Something inside of John snapped at that point. So far, he had been willing to listen to Virgil protest that Scott was still alive, since denial was a stage of grief, but Virgil had crossed an imaginary boundary. "Enough is enough, Virgil! We did not give up on him! We all knew there was a distinct possibility this could happen! Alan did! Gordon did! Dad did! Grams did! Scott did! If an eleven year old could recognize that, then a nineteen year old should have been able too! So just get your head out of the sand and stop feeling sorry for yourself!"

Filled with uncontrollable rage and sadness, John stalked out of the room, before he could say anything else he would regret.

* * *

"Oh, little Lieutenant," the eerie voice crooned again, stealthily circling the tied up pilot. "You _are_ looking mighty bad. I imagine you need medical attention." There was a humourless laugh. "Well, tough. You're not getting any."

_Not that I expected medical attention. How nice of you to offer, though._

"Take the tape off."

A ripping noise echoed around the room as the duct tape was viciously ripped of Scott's mouth.

"Did you want to say something?"

"Yeah, actually, I did," Scott gasped.

"So you are ready to tell us what we want to know."

"What kind of a fool do you take me for? I know you wouldn't give me medical attention. But it was nice of you to offer, thanks," Scott remarked dryly.

His reply was a hard slap which would have left him reeling, if it wasn't for the fact he was already bound to a chair.

"You think that's funny?"

Ignoring common sense, Scott replied. "Not really. No."

Another slap across the face.

_Note to self: do not antagonise this bastard. Wow, that's smartest thing you've thought of all day, Tracy._

"Since you're finding humour in this, answer this. Do you find this amusing, Lieutenant? Don't you recognize her?" The captor showed Scott one limp figure strapped to a chair, just like he was. "What about this person? Do you recognize her? We both know you do."

"What have you done to them?" Scott growled. Protective instinct kicked in as he stared at the slumped figures. They were his junior officers, and Scott was damned if he didn't try and protect them from harm.

"Oh, you don't need to worry your pretty little head over that." The humourless laugh was back again. "Never mind them. Tell me, Scott," the captor leaned towards his captive, finally revealing his identity.

_Hey! Personal bubble space! Do you mind?!_

"Tell me, Scott, do you recognize me?"


	9. One of Us, One of Them

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: So… it's been a while, even for me. My apologies for taking so long; my only defence is that family life bit me like a monster and pushed writing out of my mind. But, it's settling down now, so that hopefully means that I'll have more time to write. If anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking out the wait, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.**

Chapter Nine- One of Us, One of Them

Jeff marched into the administration offices of the AFB with such gust that objects and his sons quivered in his wake. Ignoring the incredulous looks he was receiving, he advanced through the labyrinth of corridors until he reached the office he wanted.

Filled with a determination to unclassify information he felt he should know, Jeff barged into a small private office-suite on the top floor of the building.

"Excuse me!" the secretary behind the desk exclaimed, rising to her feet to stop the irate man in his tracks. "You can't just barge in here!"

"I'm afraid I have to meet with Colonel Royton immediately, so, yes, I can just barge in here."

The secretary frowned. "Colonel Royton has a very important meeting right now and is currently unavailable."

"You're right," Jeff agreed. "He has a very important meeting. With me."

Wordlessly, he nodded to his sons, indicating that they should just wait patiently with the blustering secretary before opening the door that separated him from the Colonel.

Upon hearing the door open, Colonel Royton raised his head, acknowledging the intrusion.

"Gentlemen," he began with an air of diplomacy, talking to the people he was meeting. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion at a later date."

Jeff waited as patiently as he could while the members of the meeting dispersed out of the room, squeezing past him as he stood in the doorway.

"Jeff," Royton offered by way of greeting, gesturing to the vacant seat as he closed the door. "Long time, no see."

It was true. It had been over two decades since Jeff had seen Colonel Royton. He cast an appraising eye over the other man, taking in the changes. Royton's previously jet black hair was now specked with silver and his eyes had hardened. Jeff wondered if he would have looked like that, had he remained in the Air Force.

"Just over twenty years, Mac," Jeff replied easily, sitting in the chair. "It's a very long time."

"I'm sorry to hear about Scott. He was a good man."

"That's why I'm here. I want to know what happened to my son."

"I've been told it's classified. I'm not sure - " Royton began, before Jeff cut him off.

"Unclassify it." Jeff cocked an eyebrow daringly and carried on. "I know you can. I know how the system works. You are obliged to release any information to equal or higher ranking officials if asked to, assuming they have cleared security."

"I would, but you aren't in the Air Force anymore, Jeff," Royton gently reminded him.

"I don't care!" Jeff roared, fed up of being diplomatic. It was his son, for crying out loud. He slammed his hand into the table in ager, hoping it would emphasize his point. "I want to, no, I demand to know what happened!"

He was angry, he was aggressive, but Jeff was past the point of caring. When it came to his family, his sons… well, he would do anything for them, regardless of the costs.

"Jeff," Royton placated, placing a steady hand on the irate man's shoulder, "You know I can't give you that kind of information. I wish I could, but I can't." Watching Jeff's eyes narrow into nothing more than dangerous slits, Royton hastily continued. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll see what I can find out for you."

"Please. I'm asking you, friend-to-friend, parent-to-parent, let me know what happened to my son. Please."

"Ten minutes," Royton promised.

* * *

Scott blinked rapidly. He must have been hallucinating, or suffering from a very bad concussion, because he couldn't believe who was standing in front of him. "I see you've gone over to the dark side, Andrew Hansen. You're one of them."

Andrew laughed humourlessly.

Scott shook his head in disdain. "You sonuvabitch."

That earned him a hard punch across the face from the captor. As Andrew's eyes flashed dangerously, he muttered, "That's my mother you're talking about."

Scott could only groan in reply.

"But, since we're in the mood to talk about family, let's talk about yours."

The tone was sugared, light and honeyed, but there was an underlying dark threat in that sentence.

"With one word, I could destroy everything in your life." Andrew swiftly moved away from Scott, grabbing a small, rectangular case off a table. Scott recognized it as his.

Opening up the case, the captor pulled out the photo John had given to Scott just before he left.

_No, _Scott thought, _you do not mess with my family. You do not even __think__ about them. No-one screws with my family because of me and gets away with it. Do you understand? No-one. I will hunt you down personally and I will make you pay if a hair on their head is harmed!_

"It's a big family," Andrew crooned, circling the fallen pilot. "I'm sure you wouldn't want anything… untoward to happen to them."

Scott snarled.

"I could make it look like an accident. I could make everything look like an accident," Andrew purred sadistically. "With Alan, he could be crossing the road, on the way to school, and BAM! A car just wipes him out. It would look like an accident, but we would know better, wouldn't we, Lieutenant?

"With Gordon, that water loving red-head, drowning seems like a good way to go. Just imagine your poor, ickle brother, struggling to breathe, fighting against the dead-weight hand that holds him in place. What a pity.

"Virgil goes to Denver Tech, doesn't he? It's a top mechanical engineering school; must have a lot of equipment there. I wonder what would happen if someone _accidentally _rammed a cutting blade into his arm? Virgil wouldn't be able to paint, or play the piano. He would be nothing more than a worthless cripple. It would be so humiliating, so debilitating, it would crush him mentally. That's if the blood loss didn't kill him first. How unfortunate!

"John, sweet, sweet John. He's the stargazer, isn't he? I can see the headlines right now… space junk falls from the sky and bludgeons someone to death. And, of course, the _space junk_ won't be found. What a shame…

"Now, this is just the icing on the cake, but your father is a coffee addict. Someone in his office might just swap the sugar for some arsenic."

"Arsenic is yellow," Scott spat out. "Sugar is white. Only an idiot would do that. Hate to point out that flaw in your plan."

"Rat poison is white. Hate to point out that flaw in your nonsensical reasoning."

Scott remained silent. He knew that they were empty threats, a means of psychological torture, but they were still getting under his skin. He was thinking with his heart, not his head.

"Oh yes, Lieutenant Tracy, we know all about your family. We know all about you. We know things about you, you don't even know about yourself yet."

_Well, that doesn't sound creepy at all. It didn't make any sense either. _

"You, Lieutenant," Andrew lowered his voice, if that was even possible, to barely a whisper. "You are a family man. That's your biggest weakness. You'll do anything for them. In fact, I imagine one day in the not too distant future, you'll want a family of your own."

Scott remained as still as a statue, not giving any indication that his captor was right… or wrong.

"I can put a stop to that. Know what I'm saying? Sure you do… you're a smart man."

From a hidden crevice in the room, Andrew picked up a red hot iron rod. He grinned sadistically before skewering the rod along the length through Scott's thigh. The smell of singed skin fusing with burning muscle made Scott's stomach perform back flips, but he swallowed his revulsion and grimaced in pain, not allowing a scream of agony escape his lips. He was not going to show any weakness in front of his former ally. He'd be damned if he gave his captor the satisfaction.

"While all of this is viable, not to mention fun, I know what would really hit you hard right now. You see, while you're a family man, you'll also do anything to protect your friends. You couldn't even do that right," Andrew taunted, yanking the rod out with a sharp tug.

With a nod of his head, he ordered some accomplices to drag one of the slumped figures of Scott's junior officers closer to Scott.

"Now, Lieutenant Tracy, I want you to stare your Second Lieutenant – the one you call Newbie – straight in the eye. I want you to watch as the bullet strikes through her brain. I want you to see the spark leave her eyes as she dies. I want you to feel the dead weight of her body as she slumps lifelessly onto you. I want you to watch her die," Andrew ordered, "Knowing you could have saved her. But you didn't. And all you had to do was talk."

The revulsion that had settled in the pit of Scott's tripled and threatened to bubble and burn its way up his throat like acid. He quashed it, again, with steely determination.

_This is my fault. But I can stop this from happening. I can fix it._

"Alright!" he yelled out. "I'll tell you what I know. But you have to let her go."

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "How gallant of you; talking just to save a worthless life. But, just as insurance, just because I can, I'm going to let them do this anyway."

The air in the room stilled as a shot rang through the air.

* * *

Jeff fidgeted in his chair while glancing at his watch. _It's been fifteen minutes. I'm going back in there._

Purposefully, Jeff strode to the door, only to be held back by John.

"Dad, sit down. I'm sure the Colonel will let us know when he's ready."

"It's been fifteen minutes, John," Jeff replied, as though that was an explanation in itself. "I want answers and I want them now. I've waited long enough."

"We all have, Dad," John agreed, "But rushing in there would be bad. If we have to wait for a few more minutes, then we wait. It's better to have all the facts presented to us in one sitting than several facts presented disjointedly. I'll even get you a coffee if you do."

_Damn my son for being logical and making sense, _Jeff huffed as he sat back down with a heavy heart. _Might take him up on the coffee bribe, though._

"A coffee would be wonderful, John. But, no milk in the coffee."

"Right, two small coffees coming up."

"Make that three," Virgil piped up, playing imaginary scales on an imaginary piano. It was something he did when he was stressed, angry or nervous.

"I'll have a strawberry shake, thanks, John," Gordon said before mumbling, "But without the strawberry."

"I'll take a hot chocolate with extra sprinkles and marshmallows, thanks for asking," Alan supplied.

Resigned to the fact that he had just been roped into spending half his earnings from his part-time job on drinks for his family, John recounted the order. "So, that's three small decafs, one strawberry shake – sorry, Gordy, doesn't come without the strawberry – and one hot chocolate."

"With extra sprinkles and marshmallows," Alan reminded John testily.

"Got it. Virg, get up and help me."

Virgil's head snapped up with a look of pained horror. _Why? I'm staying here. You know I've gotta know what happened._

John just stared back. _Because as awesome as I am, even I can't carry five cups with two hands. Now, get up! I'll drag you by your hair if I have to!_

Virgil groaned as he rose to his feet. "I really hate you and your logic, John!"

After extracting a promise from their father – no, Jeff and the others wouldn't continue with the Colonel without them – the two brothers walked to the door and came face to face with the Colonel.

"And?" Jeff demanded impatiently.

"I pulled a few strings," the Colonel admitted, as he led the Tracys into his small office. If he was surprised that everyone, as opposed to just Jeff, followed him, he hid his surprise well. "And I was able to get clearance to play the last recording."

"Last recording of what?" John asked sharply, as though he was spitting out shards of glass.

"Last recording of the flight he was piloting." Colonel Royton's sombre expression morphed into distinctly uncomfortable as he leaned forward and said, "Jeff, I really don't think – "

"I don't care what you think," Jeff cut him off, with a mere hint of a growl. "The boys are old enough to understand what's happening. They deserve to find out first hand, just like me."

Colonel Royton swallowed. "Right. It's your call… but, don't say I didn't warn you. Before I play the recording, you need to understand some background information.

"Because of the predicament down in Bereznick, before we could send in humanitarian aid, we had to agree to some conditions." At the outraged looks on the Tracys' faces, Royton continued hastily. "This was set by the Bereznick government – or what's left of them – for the aid workers safety."

Virgil fought hard, but he couldn't suppress a sardonically amused snort. _Not much use, was it?_

"We talking about unarmed planes, lack of weapons, technology that hasn't been used since almost half a century ago. Basically, all the planes were fitted with sound recorders and black boxes, but not video recorders of the cockpit and cabin."

The video recorders had been a relatively recent addition to all military aircraft. It had been in use for thirty years, and it was used to provide footage of a series of events, should the unthinkable occur.

"So," Jeff forced out through gritted teeth, trying and almost failing to keep a handle on his temper, "You're telling me you sent my son out into a war zone_ without _up-to-date technology?! You sent them out there with primitive technology?! What the hell were you thinking?! Oh, right, you weren't!"

Gordon placed a steadying hand on his father's arm, hoping to calm him down and ground him back to reality.

"Dad," Alan warned quietly. "Stop. Let's just hear the recording. Please."

Unwavering, child-like, innocent blue eyes met stormy, cold, angered grey ones.

Jeff took a few deep breaths and nodded stiffly at Royton.

Wordlessly, the Colonel placed the mini-disc with the recording into the player and allowed the background noise of a phantom plane engine whine to fill the room.

"_Flaps?"_

"_Check."_

"_Think Riley's gonna be OK, Ace? ... Hydraulic fluid?"_

"_Course he is. The idiot has had worse before… Three quarters full."_

"_Main gear?"_

"_Locked and in position."_

"_Emergency exits?"_

"_Locked and secured. We are ready to roll."_

"_Excellent… Ace, do you want to do the honours? If you do, make it comedy. I need a laugh today. Relieve the stress and tension and bad gut feeling I have. We all need that."_

"_Do I ever want to do the honours! _

"_Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of both pilots, Lieutenant Hansen and Lieutenant Tracy, I would like to welcome on board today's flight. If you are flying to the village of Ramutan, you have come to the right place. If you aren't, well, you're in for a long flight._

"_I'd like to point out some important safety features of this plane. In the unlikely event that this plane crashes in water, your seat can be used as a floatation device. It'll last a lot longer than the life jackets._

"_We also have six emergency exits on this plane; two at the front, two at the back and two on the wing. If you are sitting in an emergency exit row, please, don't store bags by your feet. That would be a really bad idea. On the floor, you'll notice we have installed pretty blinking lights for your convenience. The white ones indicate the way out of this plane, and the awesome red ones mark an exit._

"_In the event of loss of cabin pressure, you will notice flappy things that drop down from the ceiling. Even though they make you look like Donald Duck, we recommend that you put them on as soon as they drop. The bag at the end of the mask won't inflate, but there is oxygen in there… promise. Put your own mask on before assisting those who are behaving like small children. If you are travelling with close friends or family members, please take a moment to decide which one is your favourite. Help them out first, and work down from there._

"_There is no smoking allowed on this flight. There is also no smoking allowed in the lavatories. If the cabin crew, my colleague, or I, see smoke coming from the lavatories, we will assume you are on fire and we will put you out. No exceptions. This is a free service we provide. We do have smoking sections on this flight; one outside each wing exit. We also have a movie screening in the smoking section – Gone With the Wind._

"_In a moment, we will be turning off all cabin lighting for take-off. If you are afraid of the dark, please push the yellow button above your head. That will turn on your reading light. Please don't push the blue button. That is your seat ejection button, and pushing it now would be a really bad idea._

"_Thank you for your attention, and we hope you have a pleasant flight."_

Gordon was hard pushed not to laugh at that. He didn't know his older brother – who was a stickler for the rules, and took everything seriously – had a humorous side to him. From the laughter coming from the recording, it seemed like he wasn't the only one_._

"_Ace, that was one of the funniest in-flight safety announcements I've heard in a while! I absolutely __loved __the smoking section part. Mind if I borrow it sometime?"_

"_Sure you can borrow it… And of course it was funny. You asked for comedy, so I gave them comedy."_

"_Scott?"_

"_That's my name. Don't wear it out."_

"_You know HQ were listening in on that, don't you?"_

"_Damn!"_

"_Scott?"_

"_Yep?"_

"_They're still listening."_

"_I'm really in it now, aren't I? I just told everyone that they could party on our wings if they have to. Base doesn't take that kind of thing as a joke."_

"_Relax. What's done is done. The worst that can happen is that you'll be placed on probation."_

The recording was awkwardly silent for a long period of time, causing Jeff some frustration. So much silence for such a long period was unnatural, in his opinion. As a series of alarms shrieked out through the recording, Jeff felt a sense of relief, but trepidation as well.

"_What're we dealing with, man?"_

"_No clue yet... Looks like a missile. A high speed, moving projectile… Oh no. No, no, no, no, no! Hansen, get us down."_

"_What?! We can't just drop! We'll have to equalise the cabin first."_

"_Drop us! Now! We have a heat seeker on our tail!"_

"_Right. Dropping oxygen masks and lowering plane from cruising altitude to a thousand feet."_

The recording was silent once again, but everyone in the room listening to it knew that the worst was yet to come.

"_Oh, Hansen, we've been hit!"_

"_Ya think I don't know that?!"_

"_We've got a fire. Temperature in the tail's rising. We've gotta get down now. Too many lives at risk if we don't."_

"_Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, bad! Impact's destroyed the wiring. We have no control of the plane! Did I mention how bad this is?"_

"_Several times."_

"_Ground impact imminent! Assume brace positions!" _

Alan's throat was unnaturally dry and coarse. At eleven and a half years old, he wasn't sure if he could handle hearing the rest of the recording. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear anymore. He had watched his mother being snatched away by snow when he was two; he had lost too much too young. He didn't think he could listen to the rest of the recording. He rested his head on Gordon's shoulders, and buried his face in the folds of the shirt, shielded from whatever came next. Unconsciously, Gordon slipped his arm around Alan and cuddled him that little bit closer.

"_What happened? Mmm. Tasty."_

"_We were shot outta the sky. You OK?"_

"_Yeah, I think so. Nothing Jess can't fix up once we get back. You?"_

"_Oh, just the usual impact injuries. Sore ribs and collarbone, minor cuts and plenty of abrasions. I'll live. Now, how about we get out of here before something else… goes… wrong. Scott, whatever you do, don't turn around."_

"_Why not?" _

More agonizing silence, which was broken by strange yells in a different language.

"What are they saying?" Virgil asked desperately, looking towards John, the language guru. "Why are they yelling?"

John just shook his head as the recording played on. "I don't know, Virg. I can't tell you."

Startled, John jumped as he heard a shot fire. And jumped again as he heard another shot. And winced as he heard a third and final shot, before the recording finished with white noise.

"I'm sorry," Royton murmured. "If we hadn't heard the recording, we would have assumed that your son was still alive. But, there were three gunshots on the recording, which led us to be 99% sure that Lieutenant Tracy was killed in action. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Everything hurt.

Not that that was new, but still. Hell, he hurt in places he didn't even know existed.

With a resigned sigh that killed his broken ribs – both old and new breaks – the bruised and battered Lieutenant squinted at his newly acquired injuries.

_Its official, _he thought as his hand skimmed over the raw blistered skin on his wrist. _They branded me. I'm nothing more than a serial number now. I'm a captive._

"Welcome back."

"I thought he was neutral," Scott coughed, spitting up blood.

"What?"

"I thought he was neutral. Not on anyone's side," Scott repeated.

"Oh, he is. I'm guessing you've just identified your mystery captor."

"Yeah," Scott replied, his breathing slightly hitched. "The bastard."

"Don't. It's not his fault. He's been brainwashed. I'll get Rex to explain it to you."

"No need." The mistrustful cynic eyed Scott with disdain. "Oh, it's you."

Rolling his eyes – the only part of him that didn't hurt, well, not physically anyway – Scott thrust out his wrist. "They branded me."

"So, you're not one of them," Rex concluded. "You're one of us."

"Exactly."

Rex huffed. "What did you want to know?"

"Firstly," Scott bit back a groan as he shifted on the dirt ground. "Have you seen a girl, about 5 foot 8, with brown hair and brown eyes?"

Rex flipped his head to the back. "Haven't interrogated her yet. Need to check if she's legit or placed in here as a mole for the captors."

"No need. She's branded. She's with me."

Rex huffed again. "Fine. Anything else?"

"What do you know about brainwashing? Apparently, you're the guy to ask."

Rex ran a skin-and-bone hand tiredly down his sunken in face. "It's technology in the wrong hands. That's all it is."

Scott pulled his face into a puzzled frown, fighting the grimace that threatened to appear.

"A few months back, there had been a breakthrough in the medical branch of the forces. They had created a small chip that could suppress certain memories. It was supposed to help treat PTSD.

"Basically, this chip was attached just under the skin at the back of your neck, and it would send electric impulses to your brain. It would suppress traumatic events while allowing the user to remember happier times. I don't know exactly how it works – something to do with the balance of brain chemicals – but that's my general understanding.

"Anyway, a cargo plane carrying the chips was shot down. I guess the rebel troops scouted through the remnants and collected the chips. They must have manipulated something inside the chips to allow them to brainwash captives into doing their bidding." He sighed heavily. "It should never have been used this way."

"Why hasn't it affected us?" Scott asked as his eyelids slid shut.

"The balance of brain chemicals might be screwy in us. Hey!" Rex raised his voice as he noticed Scott's eyes closing. "You listening to me?"

"Yeah," Scott nodded. "I heard ya."

"Good. Because I'm not explaining that twice."

"I'm getting out of here," Scott murmured. "All of us'll get out of here and head home."

"Impossible," Rex countered immediately. "Those who tried were shot."

"Not impossible. There's got to be a way. I made a promise to my brother. I've never gone back on a promise. I'm not going to start now."


	10. The World as We Knew it

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: again, so sorry for the massive delay. And another apology for not replying to the reviews. It was just me being slack, so I apologise for that. They were greatly appreciated and encouraged me to write when I felt like giving up on this. **

**Lastly, one massive thank you to a special friend who kicked my butt into gear with this while also keeping me focussed in Chem and Eng. I know you love getting emotionally involved in stories, so this one's for you. **

**Hope y'all like it.**

Chapter 10 – The World as We Knew it

Virgil sat on the worn sofa of the Tracy farmhouse, with his legs tucked under him. He still hadn't absorbed the events of the day. Absentmindedly, he picked up a cushion and cuddled it close to his chest.

"Hey, Virg, you okay?"

Virgil shrugged half-heartedly and deflected the question with a quick, "How's Alan?"

"Safely ensconced in his room. Gordon insisted on being locked up with him and I haven't seen Dad since we've returned." There was a very pregnant pause. "You haven't answered my question. And don't tell me you're fine. I can see you're not. Big brother intuition, y'know."

Those words cut through the air like a knife. Big brother intuition. _Big brother._

_I have two brothers with that,_ Virgil thought instantly before his brain registered the correction. _Had two brothers with that. Now, I have one._

John's own words also shook him up.

_Scott used to tell me that all the time. I'll never hear that from him again. _John trembled at the thought. _Scott, why'd you go? I'm not ready to be the eldest. You can't leave me like this!_

"It's alright to miss him, Virgil. And I know Dad would disagree, but it is okay to grieve over Scott as well."

Again, Virgil shrugged. How could he begin to grieve if he hadn't reached acceptance of the situation yet?

"It's just…" Virgil began hoarsely, once he found his voice. "It's hard to believe that he'll never come back. We don't get anything of his back. It's just… hard, y'know?"

John enveloped Virgil into a comfortingly firm embrace. "I know, Virg. I know. I want him back too."

* * *

Jeff tried to mimic his actions from when Lucy died. Really, he tried. He tried to ignore the searing pain that pounded in his chest with each heartbeat. He tried to bury himself in his work so his mind wouldn't replay the day's events like a broken record. He tried to make himself a social recluse by locking himself into his office and throwing away the key. In essence, he tried even though he knew he was doomed to fail from the start.

"Dammit, Scott," Jeff growled, throwing down his pen in anger and frustration. "I told you not to go there! But no, you were too pig-headed and you went there anyway! I was just trying to keep you safe. All I've ever wanted to do was keep you safe."

Jeff's voice had broken and a solitary tear trailed down his cheek.

_I'm Scott's father; I'm supposed to be able to protect him. I couldn't protect one son. How am I supposed to shield my other kids from the horrors of this world?

* * *

_

The ground was cold. The ground was a soothing balm that coated the burns that had been inflicted on him. The ground was his salvation. He did not want to leave his haven and he snarled when someone tried to haul him away from it.

"Please," the voice pleaded. "They're coming. Just get up and do as they say. Otherwise you'll be in worse shape than you are in now."

Scott choked out a bitter laugh as he tried, and failed, to stand on his feet.

_I feel like I'm clinging onto my sanity, not to mention my life, by a very slender thread. How can my shape worsen?_

"Oh, please hurry," the voice urged desperately. "They're demanding we assemble outside immediately. Anyone who doesn't gets taken away. They don't come back."

Scott nodded grimly in acknowledgement and slowly pushed himself to his feet.

"Come on, quickly! Please! What's going to happen outside won't be pleasant, but it'll keep you safe."

Suppressing a groan, Scott stumbled his way outside and slotted into one of the many uniform lines that had formed. A knot formed in Scott's stomach and his gut feeling told him that the situation did not bode well.

_Understatement of the century. No, better make it millennium._

"What's happening?" he muttered to the person next to him.

"Crime and punishment."

"What crime?"

"Resistance and attempted escape."

Scott swallowed hard. Ever since his capture, he had been orchestrating some form of escape. He needed to know what he could be getting himself into.

"Punishment?"

Silence. Then, Scott heard a chilling answer.

"Summary execution."

* * *

Alan unfurled himself out from under the blanket he had cocooned himself in. An age had passed; the previously blue sky had turned dark with only the stars shining down.

"Gordon?"

"Yeah?" Gordon looked up from the aquatic magazine he had been lipping through.

"I'm hungry."

Gordon's stomach growled in agreement.

"Can we have some ice-cream with chocolate sauce?"

"I guess," Gordon began uncertainly. "It's not like Scott's gonna stop us and hand us fruit instead."

The mention of the fallen hero drove a wall between the two brothers. Gordon stopped slouching in his chair and Alan's posture stiffened too.

"Actually, no. No. We can't have ice-cream. Not now. I'll see if I can fix you something from the fridge."

Together, they padded down the stairs in the darkness, avoiding the steps that creaked. As they sidled past the living room, Alan noticed a shadow pressed against the window.

"John? That you?"

"Alan? What are you still doing up? You should be asleep."

"Couldn't sleep," Alan replied shyly. "I was hungry too. Gordon was gonna make me something. What're you doing?"

John shrugged and looped his arm around Gordon, who was now leaning next to him.

"Just a bit of stargazing. Virgil went to his room a while back and I thought you two were asleep. It seemed like the thing to do."

"Found anything?" Gordon whispered, his voice husky and hoarse.

"I wasn't looking for anything. I was following cultural mythology."

"Yeah? Why?" Alan asked, naturally inquisitive.

"Some cultures believe," John began, "That the stars are the eyes of loved ones lost, and they are always watching in on us."

Alan nodded his understanding and sandwiched his two brothers in a hug. "That cultural mythology is comforting to know," he murmured into Gordon's chest. "I hope Scotty and Mom are constantly watching down on us. I hope the cultural mythology's right."


	11. Don't

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: thanks for leaving the reviews. They are greatly appreciated and encouraging. Another thanks to two friends, my equivalent to Rachel and Phoebe, who were there through the good times, the tough times, joined me in drooling over Freddy from Scooby-Doo and working through this chapter, turning it from a mess of jumbled sentences into a semi-coherent chapter. **

Chapter Eleven – Don't

Days slowly bled into weeks. Weeks transgressed into months. Scott was slowly assimilating into life as a captive. His resilience was waning, his ability to take the physical torture his captors inflicted on him was bending, but they had not broken him mentally or emotionally yet. Scott was perversely proud of that.

It was that time of day again. With all the strength left in his body, which wasn't much, Scott pushed himself off the floor of the cell and joined the lines that had assembled outside. It was the weekly execution session. He swallowed hard and glanced down at the floor, praying they would just skim over him. He wasn't ready to go. Especially not like this.

_Just because I was thinking of orchestrating an escape, _he reasoned, _doesn't mean I was going to follow through with it. They can't kill me for thinking. It's not Orwell's 1984; there's no such thing as thought crime. I should be safe. For now._

But could Scott really afford to sail so close to the wind?

Common sense told him no. Self preservation was the only way to maximise his chances of survival. To hell with the others, it was every man for themselves.

On the other hand, an intense, burning desire to get out of this hell-hole and back to his family told him it was fine. Duty driven, he knew he had to take chances to try and allow others to escape with him. As a man of action; he yearned, no, he _needed_ to do something constructive.

Even if it got him killed in the process.

Scott visibly sagged. The people he had dubbed as The Enemy, scanned the bottomless pits they called eyes over him and moved on.

It wasn't going to be his head on the gallows. For that, Scott was grateful. But he knew he had to be careful. Each time he was standing in line, their eyes lingered over him for longer periods of time. Scott was sure he would be selected soon.

The sound of a body being forcibly removed from the line-up made Scott look up. His stomach knotted and his eyes dilated when he saw who it was. He couldn't believe it.

It was Rex.

After they had worked through their initial dislike and distrust of each other, Scott and Rex became fast allies. They both realised they wanted the same thing. They both realised that they had a better chance of achieving their aim if they worked together. They got on like a house on fire. No-one knew whether this was a good or bad thing. Combined, the two seemed unstoppable in attaining their goal. Separated… well, after seeing how well Rex and Scott built and fed off each others' ideas, no captive wanted to even consider that scenario.

But, against all hope, their worst nightmare was coming to fruition. Their dynamic duo, their beacon of hope, was being split up.

Permanently.

Scott could only stare in horror. Rex looked evenly back at him. Neutral expression, but Rex was clearly conveying a message to Scott. That much was evident.

_You lead them now. _

_Don't cry for me. Emotion is a sign of weakness. We cannot be perceived as weak._

_Get all of us out of here or die trying._

_Don't lose hope._

Most importantly…

_Don't give up.

* * *

_

Days slowly bled into weeks. Weeks transgressed into months. Life was slowly returning back to normal in the Tracy household, or as normal as they could be, considering the circumstances.

It was late in the afternoon and Virgil was sitting at the dining room table, swirling a video disc in his hands. It had arrived in the post two months before, and he still hadn't watched it. Today, he had decided, was the day he would unearth its contents.

"Whatcha doin'?" Gordon had snuck up behind Virgil and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Virgil jumped, startled out of his quiet musings.

"Whatcha got there?" Gordon snatched the disc out of Virgil's lax grip and his eyes seemed to lose their shine. "Oh. Is this what I think it is?"

Virgil nodded.

"Have you seen it?"

Virgil shook his head.

"Do you want to?"

Virgil shrugged.

"Are you going to grace me with a verbal answer?"

"I guess."

"Thank you." Gordon beamed, satisfied he got his way. "Soooo, hows about we take a stroll into the rumpus room, snuggle on the sofa and watch the little thing?"

Assertively, Virgil pushed the chair back away from the table and marched into the rumpus room, plonking his behind on the sofa.

_Great, we're back to non – verbal responses, _Gordon thought. _I wish he'd give me some sort of clue on how to handle his reaction to this. I wish he'd show some sort of reaction to this._

With a plan forming in his mind, Gordon slid the disc into the multimedia player and turned to face Virgil. "Awesome. While you're getting all cosy there, I'll head to the kitchen to get some popcorn."

"No!" Virgil growled, boring holes into Gordon with his eyes. Pain and anguish were evident in Virgil; even a blind man could see that. "Why can't you take this seriously, Gordon?"

Winging a silent prayer of thanks, Gordon felt a wave of relief wash over him as he listened to Virgil's onslaught. His plan had worked; he had achieved a reaction out of Virgil.

"Gordon," Virgil sighed wearily, "Just get your swimmer's butt over here."

Gordon happily complied. Folding his legs underneath him like butterfly wings, he reached for the remote and almost pressed play. "John! Alan! Get down here now! There's something you need to see!"

The duo waited patiently until the other brothers had settled in the room and Gordon finally pressed play.

The screen filled up with the image of their fallen hero, and instantaneously the atmosphere in the room darkened and tensed up.

"_Hey guys," _Scott's image spoke. _"I guess if you're watching this, something's gone completely and utterly wrong, but then again, you already knew that. I hate it when things don't go to plan._

"_You know, when the Air Force told me to make this, I had no idea what to say. I still don't. I mean, how do you tell your family everything you've ever wanted to say in under ten minutes? It's impossible. _

"_So I decided to do something different. Instead of sharing my, and I quote, inner-most emotions, and mushy shi - stuff, I figured I'd share four memories and a few life lessons with you guys. Just so you don't have to learn it the hard way, like I did._

"_Youngest first this time, so here goes. Man, I really hope Alan's watching this. You probably don't remember this, but when you were six you wanted to drive my car. You said something about being just like Scott. I remember you throwing an Alan Tracy sized tantrum when you didn't get your way. I remember relenting after hours of having you wail in my ear. By the way, I'm kinda surprised I can still hear after that. Anyway, once we had finished dinner, I told Grams you and I were going out for a spin. She asked me if I had finished all my homework. I, um… I fibbed, and told her I had. In reality, I hadn't even started. I took you to a deserted field, pushed the driver's seat as far back as it would go, placed you in front of the wheel and let you steer. It wasn't much, and it wasn't for long, but the massive, jack-o-lantern grin stretched across your face made it worth it. _

"_You probably want to know the life lesson. It's a simple one, and one that must be obeyed at all times. Alan, whatever you do in life, never lie to Grams. She's a smart lady, she'll figure it out. Trust me when I tell you the punishment is often worse than the crime of lying._

"_Gords, I know for a fact you won't remember this because you were only two or three days old when it happened. John had just turned four and Virgil was two, so they may or may not remember it. Anyway, Dad had brought us to the hospital for a visit and Mom was letting us hold you. She helped Virgil and then passed you onto John, who held you without incident. John passed you onto me, and the first thing you did was chuck up on me with such vigour I didn't know a two day old kid had. Then you had the nerve of staring up at me with those wide eyes, as though it were my entire fault. I quickly gave you to Dad and you never did it again. Except when you were drunk, but that's a different matter. And, no, Dad still doesn't know about that._

"_I guess what I'm trying to say is that it doesn't matter where you go in life, you shouldn't forget where you came from. You may go on to win the Olympics, I dunno, but never lose sight of who you are and never lose sight of your family. 'Cause at the end of the day, we're the ones that are there for you, no matter what. _

"_Virgil, you remember those invisible ink notes we used to write? The one where we'd dip paint brushes into lemon juice and then burn the paper in the oven to see what each other had written? I only ever kept one piece of paper. It's in the third drawer under my jeans. Just take a look at it from time to time. Enough said._

"_John. Where to start? You know, I can't remember a life without you as my brother. Not surprising, since there's only one and a half years between us. You've always been there for me and you've always supported me. It's meant the world. If there's one memory I'd share with you, it's this one. It only needs four words, and the others won't understand at all, but you'll get it instantly. Dancing in the moonlight. Good times, Johnny, good times._

"_Guys, I want you to do me two favours. Don't cry for me. Don't dwell in the past and forget to live in the moment. Don't worry about what could have been, worry about the here and now. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I was shipped out, and I knew exactly what could happen. To me, there are two things worse than just dying – living without honour and dying without reason. This is neither._

"_Favour number two - don't show this to Dad. Considering the circumstances… well, he has a disc of his own to watch. It's better that way, I think. Water under the bridge and all that._

"_For something that was supposed to be short, I really have waffled on a lot. I guess I should stop. _

"_Lieutenant Scott Tracy, signing off."_

Huddled together on the sofa, the Tracy brothers replayed the disc, over and over again, gaining what little comfort they could get from the sound of Scott's voice. _  
_


	12. The Way the World Ends

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: so, it's been a very long while. I'm sorry for keeping you hanging, but it's been a trying couple of months, with hospitalisation, catching up with schoolwork and life in general. Thanks to all those who have stuck through the long waits for this story, and those who have reviewed. It is really encouraging and motivates me to write, especially when I'm not in the mood. So thanks for that, and I hope you enjoy the next instalment. **

Chapter Twelve – The Way the World Ends

The weather was miserable. Rain pelted down into the concentration camp like there was no tomorrow. The wind howled away, ripping through the unhealthily thin bodies of those captured. In short, the weather matched the general mood of the captives.

A small group sat huddled in the only shelter from the harsh elements. They varied, some were shorter than others, some had more cuts and bruises, some were more starved and some had experienced more horrors in this place than others. They were united through one common goal. They were determined to outrun this place or die trying. They had formed months, or maybe years ago. No – one knew for certain. No – one knew _anything_ for certain anymore. Since formation, they remained dormant. There was no point, one of the leaders reasoned, to provoke the proverbial venomous snake that was prepared to strike at any moment in time.

But the snake had struck.

The demise of their esteemed captain had spurred them into action. The snake had struck, but it was time for them to strike back.

"Any developments?" asked Scott.

"Ace, it's definitely tomorrow. I'm certain."

"Good work, Whittaker." The brunette grinned at Scott's approval. It was the first real smile Scott had seen in a while. "So," he continued, "is everyone okay with their designated roles?"

Nods of assent came from around the group.

"You all know what it entails?"

More nods.

"What we're doing is risky. Very risky. It's not too late to back out if you're having cold feet. We won't judge you."

No – one moved.

Scott swallowed. "Okay. Get some sleep. We'll follow through with it in a couple of hours."

There was another nod, and the group went their separate ways.

* * *

Jeff Tracy, CEO of Tracy Industries, had – unusually – taken a day off from contracts and takeover deals. He stumbled through the back door of the farmhouse, frozen turkey balancing precariously on one shoulder with one hand supporting it, and the other hand carrying a bag of vegetables. Dumping the bag on the table and hefting the bag into the freezer, he saw Virgil crouching by the oven.

"What the hell are you doing there, Virg?"

"Burning," replied Virgil, without missing a beat.

Jeff scrunched up his nose in protest against the stench that lingered in the air and hoped Virgil would elaborate. Instead, Virgil quickly opened the oven door, pulled the paper off the shelf and promptly dropped it, as though it had scalded him. Jeff stared at Virgil as Virgil stared intently at the paper.

"Dammit," Virgil cursed eventually, momentarily forgetting his father was able to hear him. Picking up the paper, he scrunched it in his hand and threw it in the bin. "I was so sure this was the one!"

"Virgil?"

Virgil sighed and began unpacking the grocery bag. "It was a piece of paper in Scott's drawer. I thought, if I burnt it, he might have left me some sort of message. You remember the invisible ink messages we used to write? Something like that. Then there'd be something I was grateful for at Thanksgiving. I've burnt so many; maybe I should just give up."

Jeff pulled Virgil in for a gruff hug. He could feel Virgil tremble slightly. "Let it go, Virg. Just let it go."

For a while, Jeff just held Virgil while Virgil cried, releasing the lead weight balloon of grief.

* * *

Night had fallen over the camp grounds and a nervous energy buzzed through the air. While many of the prisoners had fallen asleep, the group that formed the resistance were wide awake.

Two weeks prior to the day, a member of the group had inadvertently found out that there was incoming supply to the camp. Knowing this vital piece of information could be their only viable chance of escape, the resistance group had formulated an outlandish plan that would probably not work.

"On the other hand," Scott had reminded them when the plan first came to fruition, "it could be our only hope. I don't want to spend my time here wondering if I could have made it out earlier. Do you?"

And so it had been decided. They would follow through, regardless of how stupid and reckless it was.

"Hey, Ace?" a small voice whispered.

"Yeah?" Scott replied, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.

"Thanks. For everything. Even if the whole plan goes down bad, I just wanted you to know you were a damn good leader, damn good lieutenant and a damn good friend."

A small smile tugged its way across Scott's face. "Ditto. Well, twenty-two years; had a good run with life."

"Experienced all the great milestones?"

Scott tilted his head, considering the question. After a moment's hesitation, he replied, "Yep. Well, except for marriage, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence life."

"What's her name?"

"Doesn't matter," Scott shook his head. "She probably thinks I'm long gone and has moved on. I told her to do that. I hope she remembers. What about you?"

"It was unrequited. He never noticed me. We grew up in the same town, we went to school together, hell, we even went to basic training together, but he never noticed me then either. He was a good guy, though. I'd watch him look after his siblings and take care of them. Don't worry," she added. "It wasn't you."

Silence reigned as the tension increased and pure nervous adrenaline. After a few jittery moments, Scott pushed himself up into a sitting position. "This is the way the world ends. Time to go."

* * *

The smell of freshly roasted vegetables wafted through the house as Josie Tracy prepared the finishing touches to the Thanksgiving dinner.

"Mmm, smells delicious," Jeff commented, as he sauntered through the kitchen, sampling a dish.

"Don't do that, Jeff Tracy," Josie scolded, slapping his wrist lightly. "Now I know where your sons get that habit from."

"Guilty as charged," Jeff chuckled. "Thanks for coming at such short notice, Mom."

"It was no trouble," Josie dismissed. "You knew I wouldn't miss a family event for anything. That's another thing that's hereditary."

Jeff lowered his eyes to the counter top. It wasn't a family event anymore, not the ones he had slowly grown accustomed to after Lucille passed on. How could it be a family event without his eldest son present, or even alive?

"Oh, sweetie," Josie gathered her boy up in a hug. "I know how hard this is on you. I know it's not the same without Scott here. And I know it won't be the same, not for a long time. But we do need to try and maintain a semblance of normalcy, for the boys." There was a very pregnant pause, each giving birth to their own awkward pauses. "Scott wouldn't want us to mope around forever."

"I guess," Jeff mumbled into the wool of his mother's jumper. "But it doesn't make it any easier. It doesn't alleviate the pain."

"I know, sweetie, I know. I miss him just as much as you."

* * *

The moon outlined the silhouettes of the resistance group and projected it onto the ground of the prisoners' camp. Not that there was much to display, given the almost skin and bone nature of every single member due to starvation. Naturally, this varied by degrees, depending on how long each prisoner had been, well, prisoner.

The stupidity of their plan was only just sinking in, now they had decided to implement their plan.

"Are you sure you absolutely want to do this?" Scott double checked. "You know what will happen if we're caught."

He glanced around and saw several nods of affirmation.

"Okay. Let's do this thing. Guys, it's been a pleasure."

The group dissipated, fanning out in their allocated direction. The decoys went to distract the guards, the watchdogs stood at strategic points, ever observant of any person who could jeopardize the enactment of their plan. The scavengers waited for a signal before bootlegging it to the supply plane.

"Come on," Scott urged his fellow scavengers, fuelled on by a surge of adrenaline. "Come on! Move it! We get caught, we're toast."

Luck was on their side, and the scavengers managed to make it to the supply plane without incident.

"Good work, guys," Scott encouraged. As the 'scavenger' leader it was his responsibility to keep morale up. "Just find anything that would be useful. Food, meds, whatever."

"How about this?" One of the group members held up a small, primitive style radio that operated on batteries.

"Awesome. Definitely take that. Phones will know what to do."

Phones was the codename for their resident interpreter. She was a whiz at tinkering with electronic devices and had a knack at getting them to work, even in the direst of circumstances. Phones was also the person who had uncovered the little piece of information that allowed the resistance group to formulate their plan of subtle attack.

The infiltrators formed an assembly line, passing vital goods like tinned food and basic first aid supplies.

"Okay, guys," Scott finally said, an ominous vibe shooting up his back. "Think we've got enough for now." Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, he spotted a figure moving towards them, gun poised towards him, coupled with a muffled, anguished scream from outside. "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

Determined to outrun his assailant, Scott turned on his heel and began to move as fast as he could. Hissing in pain, Scott collapsed to the floor as he felt a bullet rip through his body before his world obliterated.


	13. The Captain of the Ship

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Thirteen – The Captain of the Ship

Scott's limp body was dragged back towards safety, away from the gunfire. Ensconced in the safety of the other captives, the resistance began distributing out their goods. Cans of much needed food were passed around and savoured mouthfuls were swallowed.

"We've got a radio. Phones, can you fix it?"

Phones held out an outstretched hand. "I'll do my best."

"That's all we need. Hey, Scotty," the voice that sounded distorted to Scott's ears drew him out of drowsiness. "You still with me, buddy?"

"Yep," Scott ground out through clenched teeth, desperately trying to stop tears of pain and worry leak from dull blue eyes.

"It's gonna be okay, okay?"

"Okay. If you say so."

Scott's vision altered again, the dirt ground spinning and shadows playing in the corners of his eyes. It was not looking good for him. He should have known that, considering his spine felt as though it had been set alight, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood. What was most worrying to him, though, was the lack of feeling in his legs. No, things were not looking good for him at all.

_Still,_ he reasoned,_ better to die a hero than a coward. _

Gingerly, he felt a finger probe his bullet hole and feel the skin around it. He sucked in air as the pain he felt increased tenfold.

"Sorry," the voice – Scott had identified it as his junior medical officer – apologised. "Bullet's stuck hard and fast in there. I can't get it out."

There was a brief silence between the two, apart from Scott hissing in pain at regular intervals.

"Hey, Scott, you're gonna be okay. I'll make sure of it," Jessie reassured him, squeezing his hand.

Scott held on tight. "Jess, I can't feel my legs. Why can't I feel my legs?"

"I'll fix you up, I promise."

Phones came back to the duo. "I've done my best with dying batteries. There's a very weak signal and we've relayed a message to a UN base camp. I don't know which UN camp we reached, but they know we're here. They're tracing the signal."

"Have they said anything else?" Scott shivered; a result of the amount of blood he had lost.

Phones shook her head.

"Any news of a rescue team?" Scott grunted out, desperate to keep his grip on reality and not slip off into la-la land. Well, he didn't want to visit la-la land just yet, anyway. He had to organise a rescue team.

"Not for a few weeks. Turbulent negotiations and all that stuff."

"God dammit," Jess muttered harshly, rising to her feet. "Get them on the radio."

Knowing when to follow orders, Phones dutifully established a link with the UN camp. "You're connected."

Jessie smiled her thanks before tearing strips into the person at the other end of the link. "Listen, I don't know what you're doing there, but we need help here."

"_Ma'am, I assure you, we're doing our best -"_

"Don't give me that bullshit! And don't feed me 'turbulent negotiations' rubbish! Screw bureaucratic crap; I have many men suffering from malnourishment, broken bones and infections from aforementioned broken bones. Not to mention the severe detrimental effect staying here has done to their mental health. And if that doesn't get your rescue team into gear, this will. I have a man, an honourable, reputable young man, lying here in a pool of his own blood, losing blood so fast he may not be around in a few weeks, after he was shot in his spinal chord, suffering from paralysis, because he was looking out for our wellbeing! You owe it to us to get us out of here before anything else happens. You owe it to him. Understand?"

"_Y-yes ma'am."_

"Good. We will see your team in two days, at the most."

Through drooping eyelids, Scott smiled up at his medical officer. "You really slugged it to him. Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"Too late, Lieutenant," she quipped back quickly, "You're already on it."

Scott chuckled slightly before turning serious. "Jess, you said paralysis. Is it true? Am I really…" he trailed off, unable to say it out loud. Maybe if he didn't say it, it wouldn't be true.

"Honestly, I don't know, Scott," Jess sighed despondently, squeezing his hand once again as a sign of support. "But I promise, whatever happens, I will be there. Every step of the way."

"I don't doubt that." Despite his worsening condition, Scott smiled weakly, closed his eyes and let darkness claim his mind.

* * *

The hours crept by at the Tracy farmhouse and most of the household was asleep. Gordon, however, was wide awake, pottering around his half of the room quietly, so as not to disturb Alan. With a duffle bag in one hand – filled with his swimming trunks, goggles and cap – and the car keys in the other, Gordon sidled out of the room, wincing as he stepped on a creaking floorboard. Thankfully, Alan stirred but did not wake.

Squinting in the harsh light of the hallway, Gordon stepped out of the darkened room and traipsed down the stairs.

"What's up, Gordon?"

Masking his surprise – Gordon thought he was the only one awake at this ungodly hour of the night – he pivoted on his toe and faced Virgil.

"The ceiling's up, Virgil. Why're you awake? Don't you have some beauty sleep to catch up on?"

"Touché, Gordon," Virgil parried back through a mouthful of mint-choc-chip ice cream. It was his last night at the farmhouse before he had to return to his college in Denver. "You haven't answered big bro's question, by the way."

The ginger squiggled, squirmed and eventually sighed. "I think I have… no, you wouldn't want to hear it. Don't worry about it. Go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Virgil raised his eyebrows.

"I have some pain in my lower back. Thought I might work out the kinks in the pool." Gordon held up his swimming gear.

"You're not the only one. I can't feel my legs."

"What?" Gordon was flabbergasted.

"Sorry, let me rephrase. My legs feel like jelly. Want some?" Virgil offered the half melted tub to Gordon, along with a spoon and a chair. Gordon sat down, dropping his bag to the floor, pocketed the car keys and dug in.

"Oh, by the way, there's no way I would have let you driven the car out to the pool, Gordon. You're not licensed."

Gordon grinned slowly. So, he hadn't been able to have a midnight swim. But splurging on junk food with his brother seemed like a pretty good substitute.

* * *

Two days had passed – they knew this because one scavenger had swiped a watch out of the supply plane. Morale was low and the rejuvenated sense of hope they had after making contact with the outside world had depleted into nothing more than an unfulfilled wish.

"Where the bloody hell are they?" Jess growled, shaking Scott to keep him awake. "Lieutenant, don't you _dare_ close your eyes. You understand me?"

Scott nodded, too tired to fight her on this, as his eyelids drooped.

"Lieutenant, you stay awake and that's an order!"

It had been hard work, but somehow all the medical personnel amongst the captives had managed to stem the blood flow that was gushing out of the bullet hole in Scott's back. It had been a small, but a much needed victory in ensuring that Scott stayed alive. At least, for the short term. The long term repercussions of this latest attack on his body were yet to be determined.

"Y'know what I want to do most right now?" Scott murmured, peeling the skin away from his fingers.

"Kick back with a cool beer and watch the game?"

"Well, that would be nice, but no. I just… I want to tell Dad I'm sorry. He was right, as usual. We had a massive blow up before I left, said some pretty hurtful things, and I just want him know I didn't mean it. Any of it. You'll tell him that if I can't, right?"

"You can tell him that yourself. You will make it out of here. You will be alright." She deliberately left off the unspoken _you have to be alright._

Using what little strength he possessed, Scott pushed himself into a semi-upright position. "How is everyone? You guys all okay?"

The rest of the captives were in a much better condition now that they were slightly more nourished. They had more energy and their health in general had improved after they had been given medication. They were as close to awesome as they were going to get in the concentration camp.

Feeling the last of his strength leave his arms, Scott flopped back down, lying gingerly on the makeshift padding to help prevent viruses and bacterial from infecting his wound. "Where the hell are they?"

As if on cue, Scott could hear soft footsteps, gradually getting louder and louder.

"Good to see you guys. Thought you had forgotten about us," Scott quipped lightly, although he was inwardly relieved that the rescue party had showed up. The figure standing above him was familiar, which only served to reassure Scott some more.

"Nah, we could never forget you, no matter how hard we tried. How bad are you?"

Scott winced. "Possible paralysis."

"Aw, I'm sorry, dude. Okay. We'll need to get you onto a spinal board. It'll hurt, but it's better in the long run."

Scott shot the rescuer a look. It clearly conveyed the way he felt. Tired, fed up, and a hint of desperation lurked in the back of his eyes while his expression read _I don't care what you do, even if it means amputating my legs, just get me out of here._

"Wait." Scott raised his hand to halt the action around him. "Get the others to safety first."

The group of rescuers shot him an incredulous look.

"I'm kinda like the captain of the ship," Scott offered by way of explanation. "I remain on it while my passengers are on board, even if it means I sink when disaster strikes."

It took a while, but one-by-one, each captive had made their way to safety under the direction of their rescue crew. Only then did Scott allow them to gingerly roll the spinal board under his back and carry him out of the hellhole that had imprisoned him for an undetermined period of time. With each step, he was carried further and further away from the concentration camp. With each step, Scott found it a little easier to breathe. The air was less stale, perfumed with the smell of safety, security, hope, and most importantly, freedom.

With each step away from the concentration camp, Scott certainty about one fact increased tenfold.

_I will make it back home._


	14. Not Worth It

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: my apologies for the excruciatingly long wait. Had some serious illnesses these past few months, and have been working on getting myself healthy again, so fan fiction took a bit of a backseat. For those that sent me PMs, reviews asking me if I would finish this, or even if you are just reading, I assure you I will. Just asking for a little bit of patience with this. Thanks, and hope you enjoy the chapter. **

Chapter Fourteen – Not Worth It

His eye flickered up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Pupils dilating and contracting to adjust to the change in light, his eyes snapped open. His surroundings were dim, and he could just make out the vague silhouettes of various pieces of machinery looming ominously towards him from the wall.

_Have they captured me again? _He thought desperately, fiddling with the tubes that were entering his body. The tubes were leading to various liquids in various bags, hanging from a rod. _Have they torn me away from those that believe in me for some freakish medical experiment? Am I like a human guinea pig for some sick disease cocktail? _

He didn't know where the hell he was. Disorientated and confused, his mind could only grapple at the endless possibilities regarding his location. Either way, the Lieutenant refused to remain vulnerable. He had to get out of there.

It was only when he tried to move his legs, he remembered what had happened. The words jumped out at him like fragments, and Scott had to piece them together.

Gunshot.

Wound.

Spinal column.

Paralysis.

Pain.

Lots of pain.

_Crap._

Pain, coupled with paralysis, in any situation, was never good.

_I may never walk again. _

That traitorous thought entered, unbidden into his mind. He pushed it away just as fast as it had entered.

With a groan of frustration, Scott gave up on trying to move his legs.

"Ah, you're awake, Lieutenant."

A shadow moved closer towards him, moving to adjust one of his wires. Scott yanked the wires away from the shadow, snarling slightly.

"Relax, Lieutenant. I just want to lower your saline solution."

Unable to do much more than glare at the shadow – Scott could figure out it was a she – he let her fiddle. Whatever kept her happy meant less trouble for him.

"I'll get the doctor for you," she added, with a kindly smile.

Doctor? That could only mean one thing. He was in a hospital. He was safe. Unless…

No. No-one would be that twisted.

_Would they?_

What if this was a trap? A way of getting him to lower his guard, by providing him medical care that had been denied from him for so long? What if he really was still inside that hellhole?

Dammit, Scott hated psychological mind games.

"It's nice to see you awake, Lieutenant," the doctor said, grabbing a data pad off the edge of his patient's bed. "We were beginning to worry about you, given the fact that you hadn't woken up yet."

Scott's face pulled into a puzzled frown.

"I imagine you have a few questions," he continued. "First of all, I'm Dr. Burns, and I'll be overseeing your treatment while you're with us in the UN Base Camp hospital."

So, he was safe. But what about the others? He had wondered.

"You've undergone quite a bit of surgery to put everything back together again. Your ribs have been realigned, and the radius in your left arm has been reset so that the bone knits together in a straight line. We've run a few tests on your blood work, and we're keeping you on a course of antibiotics to help fight off some infections you have, as well as having a constant feeding drip attached to your body, as you are seriously malnourished. To be honest, Lieutenant, we're amazed that you made it this far without succumbing to these."

_So, I'm fine. What about the others? _He thought desperately. Just because he was okay, it didn't mean the others were alright too.

"However, there is a lot of swelling and bruising around your spinal column. As far as we can tell, based off the x-rays, MRIs and CT scans, it would be more beneficial for us to wait for the swelling to settle down before we determine if we can pull the bullet out from your spine, and if there will be long-lasting damage."

Scott's eyes darted towards the doctor, a ray of hope radiating out from them.

"There is no definite fact we can give you in regards to your spine, so there is the possibility, as slight as it is, that you will walk again."

Despite the elation that ran rampant through his body, Scott couldn't stop his eyelids from drooping slightly.

"I'll let you get some rest. We're mighty glad to have you back with us, Lieutenant. Mighty glad."

* * *

The door to the dorm John shared closed with an audible slam as his roommate stalked out in a temper. John shrugged, with no feeling of remorse – the guy was a jerk, especially as an anti-military fanatic, claiming that those who enlisted in the defence forces deserved everything that came their way.

Something inside of John snapped, and it took all his self control to not beat the guy to a pulp. He could only imagine the look of disappointment on Scott's face if he did that.

With a sigh, John pulled his multi-purpose data pad towards him, beginning a vid-call with his brother.

"Hey, Virg," John said.

"Hey, John." Hesitation. "What's wrong? You look slightly… angered, to say the least."

"Oh, just a… disagreement with my roomie. No big. So, how about you? Settled into Denver yet?"

"Whoa, slow down, Johnny," Virgil laughed. "It's only my first day. As a freshman. It'll take a while."

"That it will," John agreed. "That it will."

There was more silence. John could see Virgil twisting some paper in his hand. A nervous habit, it indicated that Virgil had something to say, but he didn't know quite how to phrase it.

"Okay, Virg. Spit it out."

"I feel… different."

John raised fine, blond eyebrows, not knowing how else to respond. This, under normal circumstances, would have been Scott's forte. Scott had always been the one to guide them through moments like these. But Scott wasn't there anymore. It was up to John to fill those shoes.

"Different? You're bound to feel different. Moving away for college is a big deal, you know."

"No," Virgil sighed, face twisted in pained annoyance. "It's not that. Don't worry, John. I don't think anyone would understand the way I'm feeling. My legs still like jelly when I walk on them, by the way."

"That's not good, Virg," John berated light-heartedly. "What's going on?"

Virgil shrugged, not really sure how to answer John when he himself didn't understand the sudden onset of his jelly legs.

"C'mon, Virg, it's me," John wheedled.

"Hey, it's nothing," Virgil reassured John. "If you really wanna worry about someone, worry about Gordon."

"Gordon?" John sighed. "What elaborate prank has he pulled this time?"

Virgil shook his head. "No, no prank. He's just had a lot of lower back pain. Started about the same time I got jelly legs. Spooky, huh?"

"Yeah, spooky," John murmured thoughtfully. "I'll give Gordon a call in a few hours, see how he is. Hey, Virg, promise me something."

"As long as there's no weird, perverse sexual practices involved, you know I will."

"No," John chuckled. "Not this time. If it hasn't dissipated within the week, go see the doc. Promise me."

If it was strange for Virgil to hear the order from John, it was twice as strange for John to be saying it. This was the kind of stuff Scott dealt with. This was Scott's forte, not John's. But since Scott wasn't there, John felt obligated to step in.

Virgil twitched, as though he was trying to shake off an irksome fly. The words sounded forced, coming from John. "Yeah, whatever. Listen, I gotta go, John. Take care and I'll talk to you later."

John's fine, blond eyebrows rose fractionally as he replied in kind.

_Wow,_ he thought as soon as the image fizzled out in a line of static. _Virg's really antsy right now. I've only ever seen him like this twice before. Must have to do with coping with all these changes. Yep, that's it. It'll settle down by next week. Guess I'll give Gordon a call now._

And with that thought, John sped-dialled the number for home on his data-pad and began reconnecting with his two youngest brothers.

* * *

The Lieutenant's sleep had been troubled for the past week since he had awoken – he was, understandably, plagued by night terrors.

Post-traumatic-stress disorder, he had been told after the first restless night. He would be receiving treatment for it as soon as he was physically strong enough to, which couldn't come soon enough.

With a start, Scott's eyelids snapped open. Another nightmare, Goddammit. He wondered how long it would last. He wondered when life would revert back to normal. He wondered if his life would ever _be_ normal again, or did he have to establish a new sense of normalcy?

He wondered.

"Well, nice to see you too, Scott."

One ocean blue eye swivelled to his right. "Hey, you. How's things hanging?"

"Oh, y'know, could be better, could be worse," the visitor answered lightly. "More importantly, how are you?"

Scott shrugged with his right shoulder.

"You did good when we were there, Scott. You more than good while the rebels had us."

"So did you, Jess. You patched me up, when I needed fixing. Especially towards the end." Holding onto the railings, Scott hoisted himself, with difficultly, from a lying position into a seated one. "How's everyone else?"

Jess chewed on her lip. Theex-captive brown haired medic was unsure of how much information she should divulge.

"Jess, everyone else made it, right?" Scott's tone demanded an answer.

"Well, no, not really, Scott," she mumbled.

"And what does that mean?"

"It means…. Listen, Scott, I really don't think –"

"What does it mean?"

Jess lowered her head, unable to look Scott in the eye. "Out of the three hundred of us left, only fifty made it out."

Scott could only mouth words, as his voice box seemed paralysed. "How?" he eventually croaked out. "Why so few?"

"I don't think –"

"Just tell me!" Scott snapped, tired with all the dancing around the facts. "Please. I don't remember and I need to know. Just tell me."

Swallowing painfully against the lump in her throat, the brunette recounted the events that had transpired.

It went like this.

Scott had been unceremoniously dragged back to a safety prisoner-of-war housing base after he had collapsed when the bullet speared his spine. Other prisoner-of-war captives had created a makeshift barricade against their captors, in the vain hope that it would prevent the irate captors from inflicting more pain and suffering on them. Of course, as expected, the barricade did not hold out for an extended period of time. The captors made little work of breaking down the barricade, before picking out captives, one by one, and leading them away to certain death.

"And they did all of that because they couldn't get to me?" Scott asked rhetorically, voice hollow and bitter, turning his head to stare out of the window.

He didn't even need to look at his junior officer to know she was nodding her head.

"Why the hell didn't you give me up, then? Two hundred and seventy four should still be alive! You had no right in shielding me from them! They shouldn't have had to give their lives for me."

"But it was okay for you to give your life for them, was it, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," Scott replied, adamant in his convictions. "Because it was my life to give. Two hundred and seventy five people should not have died to keep me safe. I'm not worth their lives." He glanced down at his immobile legs. "I'm not even worth one life."

The junior medical officer placed her hand on his good shoulder. "Scott."

"Don't say it," Scott cut her off, knowing what was coming. "Just… don't say it."

Knowing that any attempts to continue the conversation would be futile, the medical officer turned to leave the room. When she reached the doorframe, she stopped and faced Scott.

"It wasn't your fault. Please try and remember that. It wasn't your fault."

For the first time since the revelation, Scott looked at his visitor. "If that's what you have to say to absolve yourself from guilt…"

Not knowing how to respond to that, she left, closing the door quietly behind her, leaving Scott to his own troubled thoughts.


	15. Man, This is Heavy

**Disclaimer: see chapter one. Should probably disclaim the little quote from "Back to the Future" trilogy – arguably one of the best trilogies to come from the 80s – too. And I should probably disclaim that famous, clichéd quote from the bane of my existence – also known as Hamlet. **

**AN: Thanks again for all the updates and the patience with this. Had a bit of a block with this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it. **

Chapter Fifteen – Man, This is Heavy

"Dinner time, Lieutenant," the nurse cried in a relentlessly cheerful tone. It had been the same tone that had been employed on him for almost three weeks since he had arrived, and to be brutally honest, it was beginning to grate on Scott's nerves.

With cold steel eyes, he stared at her for a second, before swivelling his head back to the window, ignoring the tray of food by his bedside. It was meant to be his fourth day eating solid foods, since he had been taken off the nutrient solution that had fed him while his stomach adjusted to being fed small amounts of solids after months of starvation.

The nurse sighed quietly, observing Scott's body language before slipping out of the room. Something had to be done to get him to physically eat, and fast. It would be for his own benefit.

"Doctor Burns?" the nurse approached the doctor on duty. "I was wondering if I could have a quick word with you?"

* * *

The doorbell to the apartment he shared with two other people rang, leaving Virgil to wake up from his afternoon siesta. With a start, he hastily pushed the laptop that was resting on his chest off him, letting it crash to the floor. With a mournful look at the laptop – Virgil also remembered that he hadn't saved or backed-up his latest engineering project – he cursed. The laptop had splintered into tiny pieces, and not even John could have repaired it.

The doorbell rang again, this time more insistent.

"Alright! I'm coming!" Virgil shouted. "Just give me a minute."

Scrubbing his hands over his eyes and raking it through his bed-head, Virgil sighed before wincing to the door on his jelly-legs. With excessive vigour he threw the door open.

"Lieutenant Thomas Riley?" Virgil addressed his former next-door-neighbour coolly. He had just about had it with the Air Force. "What are you doing here?"

The red-headed Lieutenant looked around nervously, swallowing. "Is anyone else here?"

Virgil shook his head. "Just me. For now."

"Can I come in?"

Virgil leaned across the doorframe, barring entrance. Standing in front of him was the person who had fallen sick at precisely the wrong time, leaving Scott to co-pilot on that ill fated flight. The way Virgil saw it; it was the person standing in front of him that was responsible, however indirectly, for Scott's supposed death.

"Give me a good reason," he responded, eyes narrowed to slits.

"There's a very good reason, but I can't do it in a communal hallway."

Curiosity got the better of him, and Virgil swung away, inviting the visitor over the threshold.

There was a moment of silence as Thomas' eyes swept the room, checking for bugs and recording devices.

"Well?" Virgil prompted.

"Okay. First of all, you need to know that most of what I'm about to tell you is speculation. There's been rumours flying around the base, but there's been no official confirmation that it's true."

"What is it?"

"I don't even know if I should be telling you this or not. I mean, I could get fired, dishonourably discharged for something like this. And rasing your hopes up, if it's an unsubstantiated claim? That's not fair."

"I'll be the judge of that," Virgil asserted. "Now, tell me."

Thomas drew in a breath. "You know how some of our men were reported missing, presumed killed in action?"

Virgil nodded slowly.

"Well, some rumours have been going around that they actually weren't killed."

Virgil blinked, ignoring the throbbing pain coming from both of his legs.

"Think about it, Virgil!" the Lieutenant urged.

Virgil gasped as realisation dawned on him. "You think that maybe…? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"That's precisely what I'm trying to tell you."

Stunned and, understandably, shocked, Virgil collapsed back onto the couch. "Great Scott!"

"I know, this is heavy."

Virgil shot the visitor a look. What did gravity have to do with this?

"And it's a lot to process, and while it is good news, I need you to understand that there may be the chance that Scott is not one of them."

Virgil waved his hand dismissively. Scott was like a cat, and he hadn't used up his nine lives yet. "Piddle sticks. It's bull and we know it. If there are survivors, as you claim, we both know that Scott will be there. You should know that, Tom, I mean, you've been besties with him since you were yay-high in the sandbox at kindergarten."

Tom stood up and walked himself to the front door, ready to show himself out. "Um, I haven't told anyone else in your family, and I don't think you should either."

"All due respect, I'll be the one that makes the decision," Virgil replied easily, holding the door open, his resentment towards the man slowly dissipating with the news. "Tommy? You're Scott's best friend, the next best thing to him - don't be a stranger."

Waiting until the Lieutenant had turned the corner towards the lift, Virgil closed the door softly, before hobbling back to the sofa and collapsing in shock and relief.

* * *

The door opened and closed, for what seemed like the billionth time that week, but he barely acknowledged it, as he was too busy staring intently at the window, watching the planes take-off from the distant runway. His eyes followed the rice-grained sized shadow, until it became nothing more than a speck of dust in the horizon, and he wished fervently that he could be one of those pilots.

_Fat chance of that happening again, Tracy._

It was true; with no improved prognosis on legs he couldn't feel, Scott thought his future was bleak in nature, to say the least.

"Would you care to tell me why you aren't eating, Lieutenant Tracy?"

Scott shrugged one shoulder. "Not hungry."

"If this keeps up, I'm going to have no choice but to re-insert the nutrient IV line back into your body again. You can't keep refusing food under my care."

Scott shrugged once more, continuing to stare out of the window. A fighter plane was taking off, not unlike his own plane back at the village he was supposed to help protect.

_Not that I did much good there, either. The locals, they're rotting in a hole, decomposing into carbon compounds, because you weren't there to help them, to be their guardian angel. You failed. You're nothing but a failure, and a murdering one at that, too. You failed your men and women in the camp too, didn't you?_

"I'll just rip the wire out, like I did with all my wires."

The doctor sighed. Lieutenant Tracy was certainly one of her more… tiresome patients. "I have no doubt that you will. But I will be there to reinsert it. The more times you pull them out, the more I stick back into you."

Scott remained silent, knowing he was beat on this round.

"We'll be doing another scan of your back tomorrow," Doctor Burns added, hoping this would perk the patient up. "The swelling should have settled down, so it should give us a better indication of what we're dealing with."

Not even the thought of finding a cure for his legs could draw Scott's attention away from the window, from the dark and sinister thoughts that were circling his mind.

"Lieutenant, please tell me that you've shifted your stance on telling your family that you're still alive."

"No!" Scott growled. "They find out nothing, until I am ready to tell them. Up until that point, I will remain dead to them, understand? The Air Force will respect that; after all, they were the ones that screwed my life over in the first place."

"Why?"

"I have my reasons, none of which concern you."

Doctor Burns sighed internally. She was well used to abrasive patients, but most of them softened at the mention of family. She was yet to meet another patient like Scott, who stiffened and flinched at any thought to his 'previous' life.

"Scott, can I ask you a question?"

He remained silent. She took the silence as assent.

"Do you want to go home?"

No answer.

"Well, do you want to be here?"

The silence spoke volumes.

"Scott, if you could be anywhere, where would you want to be?"

Scott considered this, tilting his head to one side. Drawing his eyes away from the window, he stared at his immobile legs – _those stupid attachments that would never function again – _and then swivelled cold, hard, steel blue eyes over the doctor.

His response was chilling, clearly conveying the mental anguish he had been subjecting himself to over the past three weeks.

"Why do I have to be anywhere? Who says I have to be? Who says I _want_ to be?"


	16. Secrets Unveiled

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Sixteen – Secrets Unveiled

Gordon snapped his lucky yellow swimmers cap over his hair and pulled his goggles over his eyes. For some bizarre reason, his back was still giving him gyp. He twisted and turned, performing stretches and contortions to work out the kinks in his lower back. To no avail. His back still throbbed dully, each neuron firing a rapid tattoo of pain to his brain. Still, the pool was heated, and hot water always helped the red-head cope with pain. Quashing his feelings, Gordon focussed on the race that lay ahead of him.

"State champions," someone had said. "You ready for this, Tornado Tracy?"

Gordon sucked in a breath, steading himself after he had been thrown off balance. "I guess," he shrugged, not willing to commit to a more concrete answer.

"You'll do fine," the other person drawled, moving his hand so that it clamped down painfully hard on Gordon's shoulder. Gordon's legs buckled and wobbled underneath the extra weight. His back screamed in protest; it felt like it had been set alight, magnifying the pain he already felt. Unable to fight the pain any longer, and looking for a slight reprieve from it, Gordon allowed his legs to give way and collapse from underneath him.

* * *

Being wheeled around the hospital wards was an illuminating, yet depressing experience for Lieutenant Scott Tracy. Passing through the rehab ward on the way to the CAT and MRI scanners allowed him to come to this conclusion. It gave him hope to see people who had been injured in a similar manner to him regain control over their lives again. It also disappointed him, knowing that given his current situation, he probably would not be one of them. He had never felt more worthless than he did at that moment in time.

Once he was safely ensconced back in his room, he glanced impatiently at the door. In the month and a week he had been here, Scott had figured out that the military hospital ran like clockwork. Precisely one minute after a patient was rolled back into their room or ward of residence, the doctor in charge of their treatment would explain the results.

Doctor Burns marched back into room, test results tucked neatly under her arm, proving that Scott was no exception to the rule.

"Well?" Scott asked, waiting to hear the news.

The doctor couldn't quite mask her expression of disappointment fast enough. "The swelling around the site of injury has reduced significantly."

"That's good, right?" Scott questioned, sounding slightly wary.

"While your spinal column hasn't been completely severed, Lieutenant, you have sustained several micro fractures, and there is considerable damage to the nerves that run from your legs to your brain. I'm sorry; it appears to be irreversible."

Scott squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to let the tears that had formed beneath his lids fall. This was it. He was realistic enough to know his career with the Air Force was over; hell, his career as a pilot had just been flushed down the toilet. Even with the recent introduction and enforcement of anti-discriminatory laws to less-abled people, no-one in their right mind would hire a pilot that couldn't use their legs.

"Lieutenant?"

The voice dragged Scott back to reality. He swallowed painfully, fully aware that there was more to his condition, but unsure if he was strong enough to hear it.

"The surgeon has also had a look at your scans. He believes that the bullet is so firmly lodged in your back; it would cause more damage if he tried to remove it. He strongly advises that you do not undergo further surgery."

"What would happen if I decided to ignore his advice and get it removed? Worst case scenario," Scott laughed self-depreciatingly, incredulous that his situation could become worse. "Aside from death, of course."

Not being one to sugar-coat her response, Dr. Burns replied bluntly, "The worst case scenario would render you as a quadriplegic."

There was silence for a few moments.

"Do you have any more questions, Lieutenant?"

"If my brother was here…" Scott trailed off, shaking his head as he realised he had said too much by acknowledging part of the past he was working on forgetting.

"Yes?" Dr. Burns pressed.

"He'd ask if I would set off metal detectors at airports."

Dr. Burns was about to laugh, but seeing the utter look of devastation on her patient's face caused her to bit her lip. She would have loved to have had this particular brother with Scott, as he sounded like a regular jokester. Whoever had said that laughter was the best medicine knew what they were talking about.

"Scott, please let us contact your family. You will need them more now than ever."

Scott's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his cobalt blue eyes turning darker by several shades, until they were almost black.

"They do not find out," he stipulated, with a growl in his voice. "Ever. I am dead to them. Don't ask me this again. What the hell would they want to do with half a man?"

With a soft sigh, the doctor left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

* * *

Doctors whirled around the gurney and Jeff Tracy could do nothing but pace as they worked on his son.

"Dad? Please sit down," Alan requested. "You're making me feel dizzy. When I feel dizzy, I want to throw up. Disaster galore."

"Yes, Jefferson, or I'll ban you from the coffee pot for a month," Josie Tracy had threatened.

"Huh?" Jeff was so distracted; the threat of being deprived of coffee did not faze him in the slightest.

With force, Josie pulled her son into a chair by the belt loops of his pants. "Virgil and John are on a flight over here. By sheer dumb luck, their flights land within an hour of each other. You will have to go and pick them up, as Alan is too young to drive, and I'm not insured to drive your car on your policy."

"I can't leave Gordon alone!" Jeff snapped, his worry getting the better of him, as he momentarily forgot that he was talking to his mother. "No-one will be here for Gordon when he wakes up."

Insulted, Josie pulled herself up to her full five feet two inches height. "Are you implying that we're no-ones to Gordon, Jefferson Tracy? I haven't been looking after him these past seventeen years for him to think I'm nothing to him!"

Realising he had suffered from a bad case of foot-in-mouth disease, Jeff backpedalled, hoping to regain some lost ground. "Of course not, Mom. You mean the world to him, to all of us. That's not what I meant. I just want to do what's best for him."

"Then you will go to the airport and pick up your sons. You will then stop at the nearest restaurant – mass production, fast food chains do not count – and you three will have a healthy meal. Then, and only then will you return. Understand, Jefferson?"

"Yes, Mother," he intoned, knowing that there was no way in hell he could win an argument against her.

"Good boy." She patted his cheek. "What Gordon needs right now is his family. What he will want is his family healthy at the same time. See that it happens, Jeff, and all will work out."

"You're right, Mom," Jeff conceded, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. "You'll call me once you find out anything, right?"

"You know I will, son."

Jeff visibly relaxed and he clapped a hand on Alan's shoulder. "I'll see you in a few hours."

* * *

Virgil Tracy hauled himself out of the threadbare chair as soon as he saw the shock of peroxide blonde hair walk out from the gate. Tossing his cup of cold coffee into the nearest bin, he called out John's name. John turned and rushed to his brother's side.

"Have you heard anything new?" John asked, desperate for information. All he knew was that Gordon had been rushed to hospital after collapsing for no apparent reason.

"No. Dad's coming to pick us up. He should be here in a few minutes."

"Good," John growled, flopping into a chair. Virgil followed suit. "How've you been, Virg?"

Virgil shrugged, his legs twitching involuntarily. John noticed and frowned.

"Thought I told you to get them checked out."

"And I did," Virgil countered. "Doc said that there was physically nothing wrong with me. It's either psychological or psychosomatic. Tried to send me to a shrink, but I wasn't having it."

John's frown deepened.

"It's not as bad as it was before, though," Virgil added, knowing this would appease John.

"Good."

Virgil twiddled with his thumbs, leg twitching slowing down, while John stretched the kinks out of his body.

"John?" Virgil began, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

"Yeah?"

"There's something I need to tell you. Something important."

John froze mid-stretch and turned to Virgil. "You haven't gotten a girl pregnant, have you? Oh, man, you haven't got two girls pregnant at the same time, right?"

Virgil barked out his laughter. "Not even close," he said, laughing some more as John deflated in relief. Thinking about his news sobered him up pretty fast, though.

"Well?" John prompted, running a hand through his hair.

Virgil blinked and took a deep breath. "I don't want Dad, Grams, Gordon or Alan finding out about this."

"It's not illegal, is it?" John asked, instantly on guard.

"It's about Scott." Virgil paused again. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Tell me," John ordered.

Virgil was more than willing to comply with John's request. With a feeling of great unease, he led John to a quiet part of the terminal, sat John down on the windowsill and began to explain all he knew.

* * *

Coming out of his sedation, Gordon sleepily groaned. Alan and Josie rushed to his side.

"How are you feeling, baby?" Josie stroked wisps of red-hair out of his eyes.

Gordon groaned some more by way of response.

"Go fetch the doctor, Alan," Josie instructed, never losing Gordon's eye contact.

"Scott?"

Josie blinked, turning her head away. "No, baby, Scott isn't here. He won't be coming here."

Gordon shook his head, upset that his grandmother hadn't understood. Fireworks exploded inside his head as he moved, and he groaned in agony some more.

"Your father will be here soon, along with Virgil and John," Josie prattled on, trying and failing to regain her composure. "Just rest until they do."

Gordon smiled weakly. Rest sounded good. But, something niggled at the back of his mind. It was something important; of that much he was certain.

"Scott," he slurred out once more, as his eyelids drooped. He wondered how coherently he could establish this. Long words seemed like a challenge, so he settled for pidgin English. "Scott hurt. Scott alive."


	17. Scott versus Psych

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: so, it's been a while, and I guess I owe you guys an explanation. Between the time of my last update and this one, I was diagnosed with cancer. Not too bad; thankfully, it was caught early enough for it to be surgically removed without the need for chemo and radiotherapy. But the recovery process was long and painful, and is still ongoing. At the same time while this was happening, I was psyching myself up for a set of school exams that basically determine what you can do with your life. Those two combined was enough to place this and other aspects of my life, on a backburner for a while. **

**During the gap, I had felt that I had lost track of my writing abilities, so I decided to focus on a few one shots to get myself back in the mode of writing. And, well, after several favourable reviews, I knew that it was time to get back in the saddle. (Sunny, your review was that extra kick-in-the-pants I needed to get back onto this. Thanks!)**

**Having said all of that, I hope you enjoy…**

Chapter Seventeen – Scott versus Psych

Daylight streamed into the hospital room that Lieutenant Scott Tracy was stationed in. Biting back a groan, he burrowed his head under his pillows. Today was the day he had to undergo a one hour psychiatric evaluation, and after everything that had happened to him over the most recent months, it was not something he was looking forward to.

He was adamant that they wouldn't find out about the nightmares that had been plaguing him since his rescue. They would never uncover and discover some of the horrors he and his fellow prisoners-of-war had been subjected to. No, Scott would not let that happen, simply because there was no way the psychiatrists would be able to understand. They may have been able to associate with this situation, but to Scott, that wasn't good enough. They had to be there to garner a full understanding, and nothing that had happened to him could be learnt and understood out of a textbook.

The door to his room swung open, and Scott used the little upper-body muscle strength he had to haul himself into a seated position.

"Ah, wonderful to see you're awake, Lieutenant," Doctor Burns said as she strode into the room. "How're you feeling today?"

"Just peachy," Scott replied with a mere hint of sarcasm. It did not go unnoticed by the doctor. Clearly, he wasn't going to be cooperative today, out of all days.

"Breakfast will be coming around in fifteen minutes."

"Wonderful," Scott replied flatly, running a hand over his cheek, grimacing as he felt stubble. Normally, he wouldn't have minded, but since he was scheduled to meet representatives of the Armed Forces later in the day, he wanted to appear presentable. "Don't suppose I could have a quick shower and shave before breakfast?"

"Absolutely for the shave, but I'm afraid the shower will have to wait until afterwards." The doctor seemed delighted at that prospect, believing that Scott was willing to take the first steps in regaining control of his life. She wheeled a chair closer to his bed and lowered the railing before transferring Scott into his mode of transportation.

"I'll have one of the nurses come by after breakfast to assist you with the shower."

"I don't need assistance," Scott responded testily. "I can shower by myself. I've been doing it for the past twenty two years."

"Yes, you do need assistance, because you haven't formally started your rehabilitation course yet. Until we, alongside the rehab ward staff, are happy that you can exercise a certain level of independence safely, you will be assisted, so as to provide you with the utmost duty of care possible." Scott opened his mouth but the doctor continued before he could protest. "This is not up for negotiation, Lieutenant. You can either shower with an aide or you can forget about the shower altogether."

"Fine," Scott grumbled with a pout worthy of Alan, clearly conveying his displeasure at the way the conversation had turned out.

* * *

Josie Tracy reeled back in shock. Gordon hadn't just said that, had he?

No. Impossible.

"Scott alive," Gordon insisted as his grandmother dropped his hand and recoiled further away from him.

"No, he isn't," Alan countered. "You know that. You know the officials came and gave us his dog tags."

Gordon looked on desperately between his grandmother and his little brother; the two people he had honestly thought would believe him. If they couldn't comprehend the fact that he was speaking the truth, then what hope did the coppertop have of convincing his father that his eldest son was alive?

Not a hope in hell.

Unable to articulate the overwhelming feeling of helplessness stirring within him, Gordon did the only thing he could do. He promptly burst into tears. No amount of comfort could calm him down. His brother, his eldest brother was out there, in an excruciating amount of pain, and no one was willing to get him the help he so desperately needed.

And that was how Jeff, John and Virgil found their little brother; dissolving into a puddle of tears while being rocked in an embrace by his grandmother.

"Mom, what happened?" Jeff panicked, pained at seeing his son in such a state. "What did the doctor say?"

"Daddy, Scott alive," Gordon gasped through his sobs. "Hurt. Alive. Scott."

Jeff felt like he swallowed a bucket of ice. Gordon was claiming that Scott was alive? It couldn't be possible. Not when the Air Force had categorically stated that his brown haired, blue eyed boy had been killed in action.

No.

There had to be another explanation.

What if it was a response to an undetected head injury? Jeff was no doctor, but he knew that a seemingly harmless knock on the head could result in a serious issue. Jeff made a mental note to specifically ask the doctor about head trauma for his second youngest. Or maybe it was stress, and Gordon had finally cracked under the strain.

Behind Jeff's back, Virgil and John shared an uneasy glance.

"Al, why don't you and Grams inform Dad of the doctor's findings?" John suggested, simply as a ploy to get them out of the room.

"Yeah, that's a good idea," Virgil seconded the motion, practically pushing his towhead little brother and perplexed father out of the door. "Maybe you should also take Al and Grams out to get a meal, Dad."

Once the door had clicked closed behind them, John and Virgil turned to face their red haired brother. Gordon searched John's and Virgil's face for any giveaway to their thoughts or emotions. He couldn't read anything. Damn Scott for teaching them how to play poker, and play it well.

Virgil plonked his butt down on the edge of Gordon's bed, legs giving the occasional twitch. Gordon watched on, the question obvious in his amber eyes.

"We believe you, Gords," John said. "Really, we do. Your back twinges, your legs giving out beneath you, Virgil's leg moving like he has tics, it's too much of a coincidence. No, we believe you."

Once more, Gordon's eyes pooled with tears. "Thanks, bro."

"There is also one more thing," Virgil said, glancing at John. John gave a perceptive nod of his head.

"What?" Gordon had calmed down considerably, now he knew someone believed him.

"I need you to promise that you won't tell this to Dad, Grams or Al. Not until we're sure of anything. It wouldn't be fair for us to raise their hopes, only to have them dashed down."

"Promise," Gordon linked his pinky finger with Virgil and John, fully intrigued by the whole cloak and dagger mystery act they were pulling. Gordon squirmed, unconsciously rubbing at the dull throb in his back that had been plaguing him. Virgil's legs gave a synchronised twitch.

"Boy, I'm glad you're lying back for this," John laughed, before spilling all.

* * *

The room Scott had been wheeled into was white. Completely white. White ceiling, white walls, white floor. There was no visual stimulation, nothing that could be used to invoke an emotional response from someone. On the joint between the wall and the ceiling, a clock hung, each echo of the second hand moving reverberating around the room. It was meant to be calming and soothing, but to Scott, it had a more chilling and clinical effect.

In the far corner sat two strangers. The bars on the collar of their uniform stated that one was a Captain and the other was a Colonel.

"Lieutenant," the captain acknowledged with a nod of his head and offered a soft smile to his patient. "I'm Doctor Jung, this is Doctor Freud. We'll be your consultants during these sessions."

Doctor Freud said nothing. Instead, he sat there, arms crossed over his chest, data pad balancing precariously on his knee.

_Looks like they're doing the whole good-doc-bad-doc routine. Two can play this game. Time for the good-patient – bad-patient routine._

"Well, Lieutenant, we want you as comfortable as possible during these sessions."

_How kind of you_. _Really, you're so considerate towards my needs._

"And we want you to know that whatever you say here will remain within these four walls. Everything is strictly confidential," Doctor Jung continued, in a vain attempt to alleviate Scott's nerves. "There is nothing you can't tell us. I assure you, we have been trained to assess and effectively deal with all types of combat situations. Express whatever is on your mind; anger, sadness, helplessness, the works. A problem shared is a problem halved. We will have all the time in the world to help you overcome this."

Scott, by contrast, shrugged. The whole buddy-buddy attitude the doctor conveyed merely pissed him off. To him, there was no sharing of his problems. He would deal with them as he had dealt with previous issues in the past – by himself. If he wanted a deep and meaningful care and share session, he would have gone to his family, not a bunch of strangers that simply pretended to care.

"So, let's begin." Doctor Jung shot a glance at the doctor who was yet to speak. "We'd like to start with some drawings."

Scott couldn't suppress his snort of laughter in time. "What am I, five?"

Doctor Freud was not impressed. He pushed a stack of plain A4 paper in front of his patient and growled, "Draw."

"Draw what, exactly? A footprint in the sand; or maybe you'd prefer Tooth-Fairy Land on fluffy white clouds with a Disney castle in the background?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Lieutenant Tracy," Doctor Freud snarled. "And you are trying my patience, and our valuable time."

"Sarcasm is also the funniest sort of wit," Scott parried back coolly, not caring that he was addressing a senior officer. "And I thought you had all the time in the world for me."

"You are dangerously close to being regarded as insubordinate, Lieutenant. I'd strongly advise you to cooperate with us." By this point, the Colonel had risen out of his chair and loomed over the Lieutenant, who, in a wheelchair, was half his height. The action was designed to intimidate Scott into succumbing and following their requests, but it did the opposite. Instead, it strengthened Scott's resolve in keeping tight-lipped over his ordeal. Perhaps it was just a clash of personalities, where two headstrong, stubborn and ornery men engaged in a battle of the wills, and neither was prepared to back down and compromise, but Scott _really_ did not like Doctor Freud, and he really wasn't bothered in trying to mask his dislike.

On the flip side, at least he knew where he stood with this particular person.

Scott's facial expression and body language remained impassive. "Yes, Sir."

"Now, Scott –" it was a brave step for Doctor Jung to use Scott's first name instead of his official rank, "We're just trying to help you. You see, you won't actually be discharged from here until we're satisfied that you are psychologically stable enough to progress forward with your recovery in a more familiar environment, like your home. Don't you want to go back to see your family again?"

A muscle near Scott's left eye twitched, but he still remained impassive. He would have loved to have been able to have had one of those macho man-hugs, coupled with the mandatory hair ruffling and insult slanging with his brothers again, but realistically, he knew that would never happen, as they believed him to be dead.

"Perhaps there's a special girl, waiting for you?" Doctor Jung pressed.

The muscle twitched again.

The doctor sighed. It was time to try a different tactic. "Scott, walk me through one of your days here."

"Why? It's in my medical file; you'll already know the details."

"Even so, I'd like to hear it from your perspective."

Scott's eyes flicked up to the clock. There was only ten minutes left for this session.

_I guess I could morph into the good patient for the good doctor. How much can they analyse from a day here?_

"Alrighty, then," Scott adopted a pleasant tone. "I wake up. I eat about four spoonfuls of whatever passes for cereal here, coupled with three rehydrated bananas. I wash it down with some milk and an apple juice. I'd love a coffee, but I'm not allowed it yet. Doctor Burns' orders. After breakfast, I shower, sometimes shave as well, if I feel like it. Then I undergo a series of tests to see how my body's recovering. Sometimes I'll work on regaining the muscle definition I lost while I was there. Other times, I'll be stuck in an appointment, much like this one. By this time, it's lunch. I eat a small amount, or I ignore it completely. I visit friends on other wards, and I socialise a bit before the mandatory two hour rest period is enforced. After the rest period, I work on strengthening and regaining lost muscle in the pool or on land. I eat dinner, relax for a bit by doing a crossword or a Sudoku or one of those form the nine letter word puzzles, and then it's lights out."

Dr Jung looked up from his data pad, where he was scribbling notes with his stylus. "Scott, what do you do in the rest period?"

Scott shrugged. "I stream the newsreel on an entertainment tablet. I may read an e-book on a slow news day. I might even watch the classic James Bond movies with Nurse Jackson, if she's not busy."

"Sean Connery?" the good doctor smiled.

"The one and only."

"Scott, you are aware that the rest period is designed for you to have a rest and sleep a bit."

And the doctor had it the crux of Scott's issues.

Scott, predictably, re-established a stiff upper lip.

"Are you having trouble sleeping, Scott?"

_Trouble is an understatement. Not that I would tell you this._

"Are you dreaming, Scott?"

_Dreams? More like fucking night terrors. I've been rescued, only to relive each atrocity I saw there every time I close my eyes._

The doctor assumed his silence as assent.

"What do you dream about, Scott?"

Now this line of questioning was coming way too close for comfort for Scott. He didn't want to dream, but he wasn't willing to share his troubles with others. This was precisely why he hadn't been looking forward to his psych evaluation.

"Answer the question, Lieutenant," Doctor Freud interjected.

Scott turned to face the other psychiatrist, instantly reverting back into his bad-patient routine.

"Of course I dream, sir. Who doesn't?"

Now, it seemed like they were getting somewhere. The two doctors shared a glance, confident that they were on the brink of a discovery.

"And what do you dream about?" Doctor Freud pressed.

"I dream that I'm tiptoeing through a field of buttercups and tulips, where the sun shines perpetually and sparkles fall down from the sky while unicorns fly over rainbows," Scott responded with caustic sarcasm. Another glance at the clock, and he knew that this session would be drawing to a close.

A soft knock on the door confirmed his suspicions, and a nurse entered the room. "I'm afraid you gentlemen need to draw this session to a close, as Lieutenant Tracy has a hydrotherapy appointment he needs to attend to."

"That's alright, Nurse Jackson," Scott offered her a winning smile. "I think we were pretty much done, anyway."

Saying that, Scott allowed himself to be wheeled away from the clinical room, leaving behind the psychiatrists, who were left pondering over the complicated puzzle box that compiled together to make Lieutenant Scott Tracy.


	18. Letting Go

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Warning: Descriptions of graphic violence are given at the end of this chapter. It contains adult themes, and it can be a tough topic for the many people out there that have been affected by it. It was never my intention to offend, and my sincerest apologies if it does, but it is an integral part of what happened to Scott, since it is about his discovery in trying to find a way to come to terms with all the things he has seen during his time as a POW.**

Chapter Eighteen – Letting Go

Just over a month had passed since Lieutenant Scott Tracy had been diagnosed and categorised as a paraplegic. It had been a month of intense physical training and therapy, helping add muscle mass and increase muscle definition to his upper body to aid him in his daily activities. Hydrotherapy was also used to help relax his body and muscles. It gave him the opportunity to relieve himself from contending against what felt like two dead weights attached to his hips, as he floated in the water, defying Earth's gravitational pull.

In the past month, he was forced to do all of that, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. But, today, that was all going to change.

Doctor Burns walked into Scott's room, not entirely surprised to find him awake. Her patient had always been an early riser, even when he was in a stormy mood, customary frown plastered on his face.

"Good morning, Doc," Scott grinned.

"Morning, Lieutenant," the doctor responded, re-reading notes on her data pad. "And how are you this morning?"

"I'm very well, thanks for asking." There was no trace of sarcasm or rhetoric, she noticed. A stark contrast to his behaviour compared to how he had acted throughout his stay.

"You seem chipper this morning," Doctor Burns commented as she fiddled with a valve on Scott's saline IV line. "Any reason why?"

Scott shrugged. "I just woke up like this. You haven't been giving me happy pills, have you? I think they might be working too well, if you are."

The doctor laughed. "No, Lieutenant, I took you off Zoloft three weeks ago. It's not a good idea to keep a young patient on anti-depressants for too long; studies have shown that increases the risk of suicides. A bit counter active, but that's medicine for you."

A pause.

"Doc," Scott asked tentatively. "How long have I been in here?"

"Just over two months."

Scott's eyes widened. It had been that long? How much longer would he be stuck here?

"You'll be in here for another month, at best," the doctor answered. "For a man that was on the brink of death due to starvation, infection and poor health in general, you're healing well. You're even surpassing some of the expectations the other doctors had," she added with a smile.

"But we're here to get you back into peak physical and mental health, and ensure that you'll be able to live independently before we discharge you. There is also the legal issue of unfreezing your assets, now that you've been confirmed as alive, and not presumed as killed in action, which needs to be dealt with before you are allowed to return to the States. Now, breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes, and I expect to see at least three quarters of the meal eaten. Your stomach will be able to cope with that much food now. Do you understand, Lieutenant Tracy?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Scott flipped her a salute.

"Oh, one more thing," she said, placing the data pad in its cradle at the foot of his bed before walking to the door. "Happy birthday, Lieutenant."

* * *

Gordon Tracy carried the secret for over a month. With each day passing, his heart grew heavier at the information he withheld from his family. He wished he could talk to John or Virgil about it, but since they had left Kansas to return to their tertiary education, he had been left with no-one to talk to, leaving him in a sullen mood.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Alan had been pestering him to account for his sudden moodiness, but Gordon didn't think it was the right thing to share with a little brother before he had informed his father. Jeff, on the other hand, had put Gordon's sudden change in mood down to the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Even his grandmother was amazed at how quickly his moods swung; one moment he would be his happy-go-lucky self, the next he would imitate a bear with a sore head.

In fact, it had affected him so much; he couldn't concentrate on his school work. Throwing his pen down in disgust at his biology homework, amber eyes spied his laptop. Booting it up, he activated the video-calling function.

"Gordon? What's up?" Virgil's voice filtered through the laptop.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"No, not really. I can take a guess; I have been seventeen before," Virgil confirmed, noisily slurping some instant noodles out of his two-minute microwave pot. "So, what's up? You look like you're about to cry."

"That bad, huh?" Gordon asked, closing his eyes as Virgil nodded.

"Now shoot. Talk to me, bro."

Now that Virgil was on the line, Gordon realised how harsh voicing his opinions would sound to the chestnut haired brother, especially as he was the one that was closest to Scott, with John coming in a close second. Swallowing, Gordon opened his mouth, but he couldn't force words out.

"Gordon," Virgil's tone hinted a threat. "You called me for a reason, and I didn't stop working on my engineering project to watch you flounder like a fish out of water. What is happening?"

"I hate him!" Gordon burst out, slamming his hand on the table. It caused the laptop to shake, and Virgil jumped back in surprise. "I hate him for being presumed dead, and then for continuing to play dead with us, when we know he's alive! Would it kill Scott to let us know he's still alive? Don't you _think_ we deserve that much?"

"Gordon."

"What the hell is he playing at?" Gordon continued ranting, his language becoming harsher as he ignored Virgil completely. "Does he not know how much this hurts? He told us he would be alright out there! He fucking _lied_ to our faces! Some big brother he turned out to be!"

"Gordon!" Virgil sounded forceful and furious. "You _will _stop there right now!"

"Why?" Gordon argued, jaw jutting out churlishly.

"Because he is still our brother, regardless of the stupid stance he's taking on, and we should still respect his choices, even if they aren't the ones we want him to make."

Gordon huffed and crossed his arms over his chest like a five year old in a temper tantrum. As far as he was concerned, Scott didn't deserve any respect if he couldn't even tell his family he was still alive. In addition to that, he couldn't come to terms with the idea that Scott was willingly refusing to inform his family that he was still alive, and hadn't kicked the bucket. In Gordon's opinion, Scott defined the term family man, and Gordon couldn't imagine Scott choosing to shun the one thing that meant the most to him.

"You're upset because tomorrow's April 4th, his birthday, right?" Virgil continued.

Gordon nodded. "Well, technically, it's today. It's just past midnight here."

"Not for me," Virgil countered. "Remember, Denver's an hour behind you."

"Whatever." He paused. "Listen, Virg, I've gotta tell Dad this. I can't believe you held out for this long with this information. I can't keep lying to him this way. It isn't fair."

"And _how _are you going to explain it to him?" Virgil snapped. "What, you just gonna rock up to him and say, _hey, Dad, I can't tell you how I know, but you gotta trust me when I tell you Scott's still alive?_ The old man'll think it's a joke that's in highly questionable taste! No! John and I have foreseen all the ways to tell Dad, and it _just isn't possible._ Don't rock the boat when we're settling down after that last storm, Gordon," Virgil warned, yawning behind his hand. The action was not unnoticed by Gordon.

"You win, Virg," Gordon said despondently. "Get some sleep; I'll talk to you later."

"It's not a question of winning," Virgil pointed out, stifling another yawn. "It's a question of not hurting Dad more than he has been. It's a question of timing it perfectly, so the others can come to terms with it, without us having to face severe backlash. It's about doing what's right for Scott as well. If he doesn't want to initiate contact with us, he must have a reason for it. Gordon, have a little faith; it'll come together if it's meant to happen. As for now, just bury your head in your pillow, and let the hurt go."

With a considered nod, Gordon signed off, abandoned his incomplete biology homework and went to follow his brother's philosophical advice.

* * *

Birthday or not, Scott was still in the military and he still had to follow the rigid schedule that had been outlined for him. In that, he realised he had to attend another psych evaluation. If Scott had hated the evaluations in the beginning, he loathed them now. Nothing had remained sacred; the psychiatrists had grilled him about his childhood, his family, his journey on the thorny road that described his teen-aged life. They studied some of his less desirable life choices until Scott was bored to tears and had to clamp down real hard on his tongue to stop himself from allowing his frustration to burst forth. To Scott, it seemed that they couldn't respect personal and private boundaries, hence the need to examine each and every aspect of what used to be his life. Nothing had been kept sacred. Now, it seemed that they were reduced to analysing the events that had occurred at the prisoner-of-war camp.

Resigning himself to what he was about to face, Scott manoeuvred himself from his wheelchair into an empty armrest. Hey, if he was going to have to relive one of the worst things a person could experience, he wanted to do it in comfort.

"If you're quite done," Doctor Freud sniped, as Scott fidgeted, shifting his weight so he could shuffle backwards and sit comfortably.

"Well, Scott," Doctor Jung interjected, hoping to proceed quickly. "It's nice to see you again."

"Doc, please, skip the pleasantries, cut the crap and let's get on with this. And turn off the recording device that's in your pocket."

Once again, the doctors were taken aback by his directness and bluntness. Never, in all their years of practicing their branch of medicine, had they met a patient like Lieutenant Scott Tracy.

"Alright then," Jung acquiesced. He refused to shut down the recorder, as it was needed for official military records. The order came from high up in the command chain, and there was no way the doctor could disobey that.

"Scott, we're not going to lie; today, and subsequent sessions after this, are going to be draining and intense. We will take it as slow as you want to go, but this will happen. We need to explore what happened from the time of your capture, to the time you were secured during the rescue."

Scott's eyes flicked up, blue irises as cold as steel, hardened and mistrustful. Narrowing his eyes a fraction of a millimetre, he allowed his hair to fall over them, shielding him from view.

"We have read compiled reports of what happened…"

"Then you don't need me," Scott retorted sharply. "If you have the details, you don't need me."

"Careful," Doctor Freud warned. "You address a senior officer, First Lieutenant."

The doctor Scott preferred coughed uncomfortably, shifting as he mentally reeled from the comeback. "Well, actually, we do need to know about it. You see, it's our job to assess how well you're coping with your experiences, whether there are any markers for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, that sort of thing. It's part of our job, purely professional."

That may have been the case, but it didn't mean Scott was going to make it easy for them. They should have known that, based on their past interactions with Scott.

"We, uh, we understand that you weren't actually meant to be flying that day, Scott," Jung began. "Why is that?"

_So this is how they want to play it, huh? Lull me into a false sense of security by asking me easy questions before they hit me with the hard ones. Nope, not playing by your rules. Sorry. Actually, I'm not sorry at all._

"Scott, the only rule we're going to enforce on you today is that all your answers need to be verbal. That way the recorder can pick up on it. So, I'll ask again; why were you flying the plane, when our records indicate that your comrade should have been in your place?"

Scott tilted his head to the side, regarding them, as he recalled their words. "Verbal."

_Gordon would have a field day with these two clowns, _Scott laughed inwardly as the doctors struggled to comprehend his answer.

"I'm sorry; could you explain your answer? We, um, we don't quite understand."

"All your answers need to be verbal," Scott mimicked, trace of a smirk playing on his lips. "Therefore, my answer to your question is verbal."

A shared look between the doctors. If he had any available money, Scott would have wagered that they were chewing over how literally he interpreted their words. In addition to that, he would have bet that Doctor. Freud was condemning him to a court martial on the basis of insubordination for failing to respond to an issued directive.

"Lieutenant," Doctor Freud began, picking up where Doctor Jung left off. "You have been behaving in a manner that we interpret as uncooperative and difficult. Of course, that's to be expected. We are not unreasonable, and we understand that. So, we're prepared to cut you a deal."

"Isn't that a bribe?" Scott asked, suspicion rising. "I would constitute that as a bribe."

"Not in this case. I suggest you listen, because you'll be incredibly interested in it." Pause, for effect. It was enough to pique Scott's interest, and he brushed his too long curls out of his eyes.

"You see this? This photo of your family came into the Air Force's possession some time ago. Naturally, it would have been returned to you with all your other personal effects, upon your return to home soil, but we're willing to give you this in exchange for your information."

Seeing the small 6x4 piece of photographic paper wave in front of him raised Scott's ire. It had been a gift John had given him just before he left; it was one of hte last photos that contained his mother in it. He lunged forward, making a swipe at what was his, but the doctor pulled it away from his reach. "Give it back!" Scott snarled, hands clutching tightly to the armrest to prevent him from falling off the chair. "You have no right to it, and it is _not _yours to be bartering with!"

"Make a choice, Lieutenant!"

Conceding defeat, Scott huffed as he sank into the seat cushion of the chair. "I want your God's honest word that it will be back in my possession by the end of this meeting."

"You have it, Lieutenant. Now, please, answer the question."

Closing his eyes, Scott let the day that altered his life rush back to him. "Um, Lieutenant Riley, he was the one that was meant to be piloting, he had contracted... something, I'm not a doctor and I don't know what it was, and he was taken here for urgent medical attention. That's why I was flying, because I was the only other pilot that had not exceeded the safe flying period. I was under it by five hours, which was ample time for the flight there and back. Round trip was only about three hours."

The safe flying period was a time bracket that had been imposed on pilots. It outlined that any pilot who had flown for an extended period of time was required to remain grounded for at least nine hours of rest. Ramifications if the rule was disobeyed were worth more than the risk of flying, so it was something that all pilots, regardless of whether they were military or commercial, followed to the letter.

"It was a remodelled and refitted passenger plane," Scott continued in a detached tone. "Similar to a Boeing 747-400, so there were no weapons or arms we could have used. I wasn't happy about it. Hell, most of the squadron weren't happy with the fact that we were only allowed to use primitive technology, especially since we were based in active war zones! But, apparently, diplomacy overrules common sense."

"Carry on, Scott," Doctor Jung encouraged, scribbling notes down on his data pad. "You're doing very well so far."

"It's a normal flight. After the sterile cockpit's been lifted after take-off, the pilot and I spent some time talking as we let autopilot fly. It was a normal flight. But then we were locked on with a heat seeker. The new kinds, the ones that lock on once they detect body heat, so you can avoid it, but escaping it is impossible.

"We were hit. The cabin began to fill with smoke and we had lost pressurisation in the cabin, so we deployed the oxygen masks and decreased altitude. The heat seeker had struck the tail, and we had lost all hydraulic fluids and electrical systems. We had lost control of the plane, and all we could do was plummet to the ground."

A pause. Deadly silence, with careful consideration on Scott's part.

"Do you know what the first thing you smell after a plane crash is? It's jet fuel and plastic. Heaps and heaps of it. It's overpowering, overwhelming. Hold your breath, and you can still smell it. It never goes away. Want to know what I noticed after becoming accustomed to the smell? It was that gun, digging against my head."

"What happened next?" Doctor Jung asked, leading him through it.

"I don't know what happened between the time I was captured and the time I awoke. I want to, but I probably never will." Scott shrugged, shoulders rising neatly. "They interrogated me once I was lucid. Several times, in fact. I wouldn't give them more than I was required to. Name, rank, service number and date of birth. Nothing more than that. No parole, either. Wouldn't take an easy life."

As far as he was concerned, Scott had revealed more to them than he had ever planned. There were worse things he had witnessed, he had experienced, but he was not going to provide more insights, unless he absolutely had to.

"What happened next, Scott?" Doctor Jung pressed. There was more to what had happened, and there was still five minutes they could use in their session. The other doctor held up the photo again, reminding Scott that he was honour bound to share all information, no matter how hard it was for him. "Open up and let go of what happened."

Scott looked between them, eyes guarded once again. How much did they want to know? It seemed to be everything. _Well, _he thought bitterly, _they want to know, let's see how much they can handle. Let's see whether their stomach flips. Let them suffer as much as I did. _

"A woman should never die a virgin," Scott continued in an unusual detached voice. It bordered on the line of being menacing. "That was their motto, and they followed it to a T. There were at least fifteen men there at an execution of someone that carried two X chromosomes. Know what happens when fifteen, or more, men are carried away in a haze of uncontrolled blood lust? Sure you do. I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?"

With an alarmed and uncomfortable stare at each other, the doctors visibly paled. Jung coughed to interrupt Scott. They were not expecting such blunt, chilling detail from him, but they knew it was about to get worse. Even though they had read a compilation of reports, hearing it in such a detached manner was enough to churn their stomachs.

"Ever watched someone be assaulted in the vilest, most detestable way?" he asked rhetorically, his suppressed anger and pain and helplessness at his inability to prevent events from occurring creeping into his voice.

"Their fear, it's sulphur. Thick, clouded, wraps itself around you and paralyses you. No matter how hard you try, you can't escape it. It fills your pores, clogs your throat, and you're not even the one who's physically going through this. By the time the fifth guy comes around, ready to take his turn, they've stopped fighting. They've resigned themselves to this. Fighting makes it worse. As their senior officer, all I could do was fight pointlessly against the chains they had used to secure me to a wall. All I could do was suffer with them, because I couldn't help them when I was meant to. Didn't want to look, but couldn't look away. Held at knife point. Every minute spent with your eyes averted earned you a deep slice through your torso. The 1000 cut execution. They could kill two of us in one shot, satisfy their sick fascination. All that, because they believed that a woman should never die a virgin."

Spitting out his words in disgust, Scott knew the doctors were horrified with what they heard, but he couldn't bring himself to care. They had asked for details, so he had given it to them. He spared nothing. He owed it to those that had suffered; their voices had to be heard in all of this. In his opinion, they had died in the most horrific way, and someone other than him needed to know the bravery, courage and resilience they had shown until the end.

Reeling from the emotion that had flown through him, Scott shifted himself out of the armchair into his wheelchair with difficulty. "I want my photo," he demanded of them, emotionally drained and fed up with the session.

The photo was duly placed in his hands and without a word; he wheeled himself out of the room, maintaining a sombre mood.


	19. Dreaming in Technicolour Vision

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: bit of a departure from style… experimentation on my plot bunny's part… not sure how well this will turn out. Title says it all, really. The muse dictated this, despite my best efforts not to deviate from the original plan, and who am I to refuse that pretty purple plot bunny with hypnotic red eyes?**

**Actually, it was written out of fear that the muse would abandon me if I didn't follow her orders. She's a scary bunny at times. D: **

**Recycling characters from other tales simply because it would require too much effort to flesh out new ones.**

Chapter Nineteen – Dreaming in Technicolour Vision

What was left of the day passed as a blur for Scott. He functioned robotically, half-heartedly participating in his hydrotherapy session and methodically chewing and swallowing his dinner, without really tasting it. Alone in his room, away from prying eyes, he held the precious photos – he had discovered that a smaller photo had been stuck to the back of the photo of his family – in his hands, staring intently at it, until the image had burned through his retinas and left a permanent imprint on his brain. So engrossed with the bundle of images he had received, one of his family, and the other of the woman he was pretty sure he loved and could have ended up marrying, Scott didn't notice his eyelids drop. He didn't realise that his hands became lax and the photos slipped from his grip as he dozed off. Family, the one he was born into, and the chance to start his own; that was what he yearned for the most. A chance to pass everything his mother and father taught him down to his sons, or if he was lucky, his daughters.

Thanks to the photos, for the first time since his ordeal, Scott did not suffer from night terrors. He did not thrash around, entangling himself in his bed-sheets until he woke up with a thin sheen of sweat covering him. Instead, he was peaceful and calm, comforted in some strange way as he dreamed of what could have – should have – been, in technicolour vision.

* * *

He was older, he concluded, fiddling his keys in the lock of the front door to the apartment he shared. Not that much older; around twenty five, give or take the odd year. The cold winter chill had nipped at his fingers, even though he had donned thick, woollen gloves. Snowflakes melted on his chocolate brown curls and dripped down the back of his neck, tickling his skin. After returning from his two-week honeymoon – at least, that's what he assumed, based on the ring around the finger on his left hand – in the tropics, returning to the cold snap of a New York winter was jarring for him.

The door opened – finally – and he made a mental note to ask the landlord to change the lock to a more reliable one in the New Year.

"Honey, I'm home!" He laughed at the cheesiness of the line, but secretly, he loved it. He loved the stability and the feeling of safety and security it provided. "Seven o' clock, as promised. Got some chow for you."

"Oh, Scott, that was so sweet of you," Thomas Riley, the man who had been his neighbour and friend as they grew up next door to each other in Kansas, and then later his equal, and sometimes senior officer in battle when they were in the Air Force, and now his brother-in-law, wrapped his arm around Scott's shoulder. "You shouldn't have. I mean, I'm already mooching off you enough by staying here, rent free, until I finalise the tenancy agreement on my own place."

"Get off," Scott shoved the arm away from him as he placed three Chinese take away boxes on the dining room table. "And I've told you before; you're my brother, you're not mooching anything. Oh, by the way, you've been rostered on for tomorrow's non-stop to LA. Round trip, so you'll be back for Christmas. Leaving and coming back to JFK. Equipment is a 739, and the Captain's Myra Briggs. She's a good captain; stickler for the rules. Now, know where my wife is?"

"In your room," he replied, pointing vaguely behind him, rooting through the sweet-and-sour pork box. "I will never get used to you saying that. I mean, of all the women in the world you could have chosen, you just had to marry my little sister."

"You'd better get used to it, because I plan on being married to her for a long time," Scott called back, wiggling his fingers so his wedding band glinted under the light. Closing the door to his room, he knelt by the bed, gently pressing a kiss to his wife's lips. "You okay, honey?"

A yawn from his partner. Scott tunnelled his fingers through her auburn hair.

"Just a bit tired," she replied, stretching to her feet. "How was work?"

Unpinning his pilot wings from his uniform and shrugging out of the shirt, Scott replied as he pulled a plain t-shirt and jersey over his head. "Delay in Washington. Popped a tyre on the tarmac. Stupid, idiotic pilot hammered the brakes, even though I told him not to. Refused to listen to me because he's a Captain and I'm a lowly First Officer. Moron made everything worse. Took a while to get a replacement. Met Virgil in the terminal, though."

"I didn't know he was in DC. And don't be so harsh on your colleague; you would do good to remember you have made mistakes too."

"I didn't know Virgil was in DC either, Tash. But he was scheduled on for a flight to New York for work commitments, so I said he could stay with us for the duration of the trip. Otherwise he'd have to fork out for accommodation since his employer won't pay for that. It's only for six days." Scott pulled on a pair of jeans, and he threw his pilot's uniform into a laundry hamper. "Picking him up at nine. It's when his flight comes in. We'll just make up the bed in the spare bedroom before he comes. I told you renting a three bedroom place was a good idea. Want to get some dinner? Your brother will eat all, and there won't be an ort of food for us."

Grabbing her smaller hand in his, Scott pulled his wife in for another kiss, slow and lingering. There were times when he loved being a newlywed.

"Scott, before we go, there's something I need to tell you. Um, you might want to sit down for this. Or just lean against the door."

Wary, Scott threw his body weight against the pane of teak.

"You know how I've been sick? And how we thought it could have been a bug from our honeymoon?"

Scott nodded. His stomach grumbled, but he ignored it. This was infinitely more important.

"I went to see the doctor today while you were at work."

Scott's voice wavered as he tried and failed to quash the waves of panic. "What's wrong, Tash? Don't sugar-coat it; just tell me. Whatever it is, good or bad; we'll get through it together."

"We were wrong. Congratulations, Daddy," she smiled, pressing another kiss to his lips before shunting him aside and sauntering out to get some food.

Dazed, Scott fathomed out the news, even though he couldn't quite believe it. Letting out a puff of air from his cheek, he stumbled and grappled onto the nearest object to support his weakening knees. Holy crap! The implications of what his wife meant, along with a feeling of warm contentedness and elation were beginning to sink in. Struggling to wipe the grin off his face, he went to soothe his stomach with some food.

With the dinner demolished, and the table and dishes cleaned, Scott shrugged on his coat, donned gloves and pulled on a woollen hat. "I'm gonna leave now to pick Virg up. Be back in an hour and a half. Don't stay up if you're that tired; Virgil won't mind."

"Okay, Scotty." A quick peck on his lips. "Snow on the road, so drive carefully. Love you."

Pocketing his wallet and his car keys, Scott nodded, tenderly placing his hand over her stomach for the first time since he realised she was pregnant with their first child. "Love you too. See you in a bit."

Slamming the door to the unit behind him, he launched himself into his car and drove to the airport. Just the fact that he would be meeting up with Virgil, amongst the other news he had learnt today, meant it was almost impossible for him to stop an ear-to-ear wide grin from forming on his face.

Virgil, it had transpired, much to Scott's disappointment, had been delayed due to bad weather patterns over the airport. Scott could see the plane – Virgil had informed him what airline and model he was flying – was stuck in a holding pattern until the weather had cleared a bit. Despite the poor weather conditions up in the sky, on the ground it was clear enough for Scott to see the runway, and he winced as the plane landed with a heavy thud. Had he been behind the controls, he would have had a smooth touchdown. After what felt like an eternity, in which he downed a cup of lukewarm, weak coffee, Virgil finally made it off the plane to greet his brother, luggage in hand.

"Good to see you again, Scott," Virgil said, pulling his big brother into a tight hug. "How's things? Married life treating you good?"

Scott laughed, giving the customary hair ruffling to his little brother. Virgil ducked, but it was too late. The damage to his perfectly styled hair was done. "Married life is treating me very well, thanks for asking. You?"

"I was great until you messed up my hair," Virgil scowled. "The hair complemented my square cut, chiselled jaw and broad shoulders well. At least, that's what the lady sitting next to me on the plane said."

"Bro, if that's what went down, she needs her eyes tested, and you are in sore need of a hearing check. Let's go; I told Tash we'd be back by ten thirty, and I don't want her stressing out if we aren't."

"Ah, married man Tracy talking there, huh? She's got you well and truly under her thumb, hasn't she?"

In tandem, they sat in the car. Virgil stared at Scott's profile, noticing just how much he had changed in the past four weeks. He seemed more relaxed, more at ease, contented and satisfied with his life. Something major had happened since he had last seen his favourite brother a month ago.

Feeling Virgil's eyes boring holes into him, Scott turned his head slightly. "What are you staring at? It's kinda disconcerting."

"Out with it, Scott. There's something you're not telling me."

"You think so, huh? Care to take a guess?"

"You're getting a divorce?"

"Virgil, do you even know me? Why would I marry someone if I was only going to file for separation a month later?"

Virgil drummed his fingers against the dashboard. "Okay, fair point. I'll go the other end of the spectrum; you two are having a baby."

Silence. Scott didn't know whether to confirm it or refute it.

"Oh my God, you are!"

"I never said that!"

"Ah, but you didn't deny it either," Virgil crowed, pointing out his observations. "Scott, that's brilliant, man. Four weeks; damn, but you move fast, bro. Either way, I'm happy for you both. Congratulations! Hey, does this make me cool Uncle Virgil?"

"Uncle Virgil? I guess so. Cool?" Scott considered it. "Hmm, not so much. But seriously, Virg, keep the celebrations on the low down. Apart from you, no one else knows."

A turn right into a partially congested street.

"When did you find out, Scott? You didn't know about this in DC; you weren't that jittery. I could sense it from the minute I saw you at JFK. And since I'm going to be dropping in on Grandma before I head home, and she knows all, whether we tell her things or we don't, I might as well ask this. How far along is she, and when's the due date? You know Grams'll want to know!"

"Um, I found out about three hours ago," Scott admitted with a rueful grin. "The doctor suspects she's about three and a half to four weeks, but we don't really for sure until we have a scan, so we're looking at a late August, early September baby."

"You're looking forward to this," Virgil grinned. "I can tell. About time you put some of those mother-hen skills to use."

"Course I'm looking forward to this; wouldn't be so overjoyed if I wasn't."

Silence. It was a good medium for quiet contemplation.

"Hey, Scott," Virgil piped up. "I know how you feel about this, so if you don't want to answer, that's fine, but why did you leave a promising career in the Air Force? I mean, it was practically your whole life."

A sigh from Scott. There were his own personal convictions that would never be told to anyone, other than his wife, but he did owe Virgil a reasonable response.

"The Air Force, it was just a means to an end. Don't get me wrong, in many ways, I'm glad for the opportunities I got with them, and what the Air Force did to shape me as a person, but I'm not like Dad; I could never see myself escalating up the ranks the way he did. Right from when I knew I wanted to fly, I never wanted to be stuck with the Air Force. No, I always wanted to be a passenger pilot, and short of being listed on Air Force One, that was not something that I could get from them. So I got my aeronautical engineering degree from their funding, gave them five years of my life, and got my flying hours up to qualify me for a passenger pilot licence."

"But… but why?" Virgil was dumbfounded. He couldn't comprehend his brother's reasoning. As far as he could figure, he didn't know why anyone would willingly trade flying fast, sleek and furious jets for the slow, cumbersome commercial planes.

"I don't expect you to fully understand, Virg," Scott smiled softly, raking a hand over his head. "But my relationship with planes is much like my relationship with women."

"Women? Plural, Scott? I don't think Tash would be too happy to hear that, especially since you promised to forsake all others for her, for as long as you both shall live."

Scott waved his hand in irritation. "You know what I mean. Look, when you're younger, nothing seems as risky as it really is. You crave the fun and the danger the planes would provide. There is no better way of seeking a thrill than when you're in a fighter jet, outstripping a surface-to-air missile, and living to tell the tale. But there's no stability. There's no routine; everything's almost up in the air, at times. If the enemy struck, and they did, because it was open warfare, you had to be airborne to retaliate. It was spur of the moment, thinking your feet most of the time, and one wrong move would end your life, no doubt about it. Believe me, I saw it happen to many a good pilot that didn't make the right decision, or a decision at all. You go with the flow, even if it didn't agree with your natural, ethical instincts. There was very little you could control, and that was one of the aspects I didn't like. Also, after a while, it's tiring. All you want is to settle down a bit."

Another pause. Another heavy sigh.

"I'm not saying that's the only reason, Virg. Of course it isn't; there were, and still are, many other factors in play. But with commercial flying, it's predictable, to some extent. The flight paths are the same for one route; the flight duration remains within an hour of the estimated flight time. There's a sense of stability there that wasn't present in the Air Force, some blanket of familiarity. That's what I like. That's what I want. That, the frequent flyer miles, and free air travel to anywhere in the world."

Virgil nodded in acceptance. To each their own, he realised. Getting out of the car, they traipsed up the flight of stairs that led to the apartment. Once again, Scott had to fiddle with the keys before the door swung open, thanks to the faulty lock.

"We're back," Scott called out softly, not expecting anyone to be up. "Err, just put your bag in the room. Second door on the right. Hot chocolate?"

Virgil nodded and wheeled his suitcase to the room, while Scott headed into the kitchen. He pulled two cups and heaped ground chocolate and sugar into them, tiredly leaning against the cupboards. As much as he loved his job, he never realised quite how jet lagged he could get at times. Good thing he had three days off to catch up on lost sleep.

"How many flights have you done within the past two days, Scott?" Virgil asked, startling his older brother as he leaned against the doorframe. As a trained pilot himself, Virgil recognised the signs of fatigue.

"Non-stop to Honolulu, then a bit of island hopping before going to San Francisco, Burbank, Phoenix, Miami, Washington and then back home."

"Aw, Scott," Virgil said, feeling guilty. "Why'd you go to all this trouble for me, especially when you're tired and jet lagged? I could have just as easily stayed in a cheap hotel. You shouldn't have done this."

Before Scott could answer, Tash took the words out of his mouth. "Because, like it or not, you're family, and Scott does everything for his family." Twirling a cordless vid-phone device in her hands, she gave Virgil the obligatory hug. "I've just had a delightful conversation with Gordon."

"Uh-huh," Scott swallowed, burning his tongue against the scalding liquid. "And what did he say?"

"He wanted you," the auburn haired woman pointed at Virgil, "to call him to let him know that you met up and came back here with Scott. And as for you, Mister," she rounded on Scott. "Have you told anyone, anything?"

Hesitation. If he was going to be pedantic, the truthful answer would be no. Scott hadn't told anyone; Virgil had guessed correctly, and he merely confirmed the details.

"I'm gonna say no, on a mere technicality. Virgil took a wild stab in the dark, and I couldn't lie to him because he knows all my poker bluffs. That's why I always play with him."

"Well, then, your brother offered his congratulations to us." She yawned widely behind her hand. "I've gotta say, given the fact that you haven't told anyone our news, you have some seriously creepy ESP running in your family, Scott."

Scott rolled his eyes exasperatedly and yawned too. Yawning, it seemed was contagious, as Virgil mimicked the action. Scooping out the last of the undissolved chocolate and eating it, Scott dumped his chocolate cup in the sink. Virgil followed suit.

"Well, I think I might go to sleep," Virgil said, by way of excusing himself. "Night."

"See ya in the morning, Virg."

Placing his hand in the small of her spine, Scott led his wife to his room, finally, to get some sleep.

* * *

Waking up wasn't a bad experience, much like yesterday, Scott thought to himself. He couldn't remember what he dreamt, _if_ he even dreamt, but he was pretty sure it wasn't a night terror. His heart wasn't slamming violently against his rib cage, nor was his head pounding or his body soaked in sweat. The only part of him that hurt were his hands, and that was because they were clenched tightly into fists, as though he had been holding onto something and refused to let go. Wincing, he flexed his fingers to encourage his blood to circulate to the frozen tips.

Moving his stiff arms, his fingers – which had the sensation of pins and needles, now – strayed over the fallen images. Slowly, surely, he held them in steady hands.

_Look at them, all so happy with the way it used to be. You can't ever get back to that now, and that's okay. Make your peace with it, and move on. Stop dreaming in technicolour vision for something you'll never achieve now, forget about what could have been, and focus on the present. You can't disturb the new sense of normalcy they've found. You owe them that much. In the same way you owe it to yourself to start working towards establishing an independent life. _

_You know what you need to do._

With one last, lingering look at the photos he had fought so hard to gain possession of, Scott leaned over to a small bedside table and pulled open the top drawer. Steeling himself, he thrust the photos into the dark recess of the storage box and slammed it shut. The photos were out of sight, but after gazing at them for so long the previous night, it was harder for him to erase the photos from his mind.


	20. Breaking Down

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

Chapter Twenty – Breaking Down

_I can't do this any longer. _

Six words. Just six little, seemingly harmless words and he knew he would lose his allegiance with his brothers. Still, he steeled his resolve, it had to be done. He couldn't keep this tumultuous news from his father any longer than he had, and he wondered how his older brothers had managed to withhold the news from the rest of his family.

Gordon sent the message to John and Virgil. The message went straight to their voicemails. With a bit of maths to calculate for the different time zones they were in, Gordon figured that John would be in the middle of a lecture at Harvard. Virgil, the sloth that couldn't wake up before nine, would still be snoring his head off. It was probably for the best, that way, he reasoned. At least it would buy him some time between informing his father of the news and facing the wrath of John and Virgil combined.

Bowl of cereal in hand, Gordon knocked on the closed study door to his father's office, before entering.

"What can I do for you, Gordon?" Jeff peered from atop a stack of contracts, reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he gestured for his red head teen to sit down.

"I, uh, I just wanna talk to you." Gordon shovelled a spoon of Crunchy Captain into his mouth, screwing up his face at the overly sweet taste. Figured; just when he needed things to go right.

"Trouble at school, Gordon?"

Gordon shook his head.

"Swimming coach riding you too hard?"

Gordon shook his head again. His training sessions were the best part of his day; it made everything else more bearable.

Wincing, Jeff asked, "Need advice with girls?"

Gordon couldn't help it; his father was so far off the mark, he laughed outright.

"I guess not," Jeff remarked dryly, signing his name on a document. "Well, Gordon, what is it?"

"It's about Scott."

In almost slow motion, Jeff dropped his pen, shifted the paper pile to one side and removed his glasses.

"I think… no, I _know_ he's still alive," Gordon blurted out desperately, before he lost his nerve.

"Oh yes?" Jeff spat out acidly, the wound still raw and sore for such a casual statement. "_How_ do you know? Where's your proof?"

Gordon worried his lip, mashing the cereal in his bowl. He bowed his head, unable to witness the anger and pain that had flared up in his father's eyes.

"I just do, Dad. I don't really know how to explain it, but I know he's alive. I'd feel it if he wasn't."

A pause. Gordon knew his father wasn't convinced.

"Okay," Jeff constrained his temper. "Okay, hypothetically, let's say I go with your theory. If Scott's still alive, how come there hasn't been any official word from the Air Force? Or what about Scott himself? Family is everything to him; he wouldn't leave us in the dark."

Gordon had no answer to that. There had been no official word from the Air Force, that much was true, but rumours from within contradicted that. And he himself couldn't understand Scott's motives. It was time to try a different tactic.

"Fine, Dad, you've stumped me there, but what about my lower back and Virgil's legs? Don't you think it's downright freaky that my back starts hurting at the same time Virgil's does, and that my legs give out at the exact time that Virgil's jumpy legs worsened, even though several tests showed that there was nothing physiologically wrong with us?"

"Doctors have made mistakes before!"

"But don't you think that maybe, just maybe, this is Scott's way of letting us know he's still alive, even if he's in crap shape?"

Jeff dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "You know I don't hold with all that ESP mumbo-jumbo." Raising his head, he regarded his youngest with steady, stormy grey eyes. "I never pegged you as a person who didn't have to see things to believe them."

"You've got it backwards," Gordon retorted quickly. "Maybe I believe in things you're too blinkered to see."

Frustrated, Gordon stood up and moved to the door, ready to deliver his ace. "John and Virgil trust me on this. Don't you?"

Jeff stood up from behind his desk, never losing eye contact with Gordon. "Not with this. I'm his father; if anyone should know, don't you think it would be me?"

Hand twisting the knob of the door, Gordon scowled. "No. I don't. Let's face it; you and Scott weren't exactly bosom buddies when he was deployed. Heck; you could barely stand to be in the same room as him. So, no, I don't think you are as connected to him as you'd like to think you are."

* * *

There was nothing quite like being on the winning side of three-on-three paraplegic basketball, Scott thought. Holding a fluffy white towel in his hands, he dried his torso from the quick shower he took, as best as he could before pulling on a clean t-shirt.

A soft knock on the door as he battled his way to find the head.

"Yeah?" he called out, sound slightly muffled, pulling the pale blue shirt down. It clung irritatingly to the wet patches he had missed.

"Feeling up for a visitor?"

Twisting as much as he could, Scott pivoted towards the direction of the voice. It was a voice he recognised, but one he wasn't expecting to hear again.

"Thought they'd shipped you back Stateside, Lieutenant Whittaker," he offered by way of greeting to his junior officer.

"Not quite. There were complications," she replied, using her right hand to gesture to the stump of what used to be her left arm.

Scott gasped at the sight. "What happened? You weren't like that last time I saw you."

"You mean, the last time you flayed me alive for saving your life," the brown haired medic sniffed. "There was an infection. Viral, so antibiotics wouldn't work against it. In the end, there was nothing they could do. They had to cut the arm off to save the rest of me."

"I'm sorry."

"For my arm? I'm being fitted for a prosthetic, if that changes anything."

"For everything, Jess," Scott amended, horrors of the enemy's torture techniques fresh in his mind, thanks to his last psychiatric evaluation. "For not being able to fulfil my duty as your senior officer and help and protect you when you needed it the most."

She shook her head, approaching Scott. "There was nothing you could do." Lifting the bottom of his shirt up, she traced one of the battle scars that adorned his body. "997 cuts, Scott. I think you suffered too."

At his raised eyebrows, she nodded grimly. "It works both ways, y'know. I am fully aware of what happened to males while they…" she broke off. "Anyway, I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Better." That was all he was prepared to offer.

"Been kicking up a fuss with the doctors?" she grinned. Having been a medical officer within the small group Scott had been assigned to, she knew how obstinate Scott could be when it came to following orders from the medical field.

"Just being my usual, charming self," he remarked dryly.

"Sure you are."

The silence that fell in the room after that spoke volumes. The growing silence fuelled the rising tension that had been brewing since the visit began.

"Hey, Scott?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you… do you blame me for what happened out there? For those two hundred and fifty plus people that didn't make it out?"

A potentially loaded question. There was no wrong answer, but there wasn't a right answer either. To Scott, it seemed that if she had just given him up, there wouldn't have been such a widespread scale of devastation. On the other hand, she, like many others, were simply following his orders; to do whatever it took to keep majority of the camp escapees alive. How could he blame her for following his directives? No, the buck rested with someone else entirely.

"No. It wasn't your fault. You went above and beyond what we asked from you, and I don't think anyone that made it out, would forget that. The blame, it rests with me."

As she opened her mouth, Scott stemmed the protest by holding up one hand. "Don't try and deny it. I was the one in charge of the planning and execution; I am responsible for the fallout. Not you, not the forty eight others that made it out with us, but me, and me alone. If it means a dishonourable discharge, with numerous counts of murder and manslaughter, then that's what I will take. I am the one that carries their blood with me and I will accept the blame for that when it comes my way. No one else will step up in my place. Comprende?"

"Comprende."

* * *

The phone rang. John wanted to ignore it, so focused on his telescope, but something twinged inside of him, compelling him not to. With a cursory glance out the window – the sky was clear and starry; perfect conditions – he sighed and abandoned his favourite past time.

"John?" Virgil's voice came through the line, strained and terse.

"Hey, Virg, long time, no chat."

"We have a problem."

"We do?" It was news to John, since he hadn't had any contact with his family. To him, no news was good news.

"Gordon."

"What about him?"

"He's squealing on us. _He's telling Dad."_

The full severity of the situation hit John. A waterfall of pebbles, followed by a smattering of boulders settled in the pit of his stomach. Gut clenching painfully tight, John swallowed. "Oh, shit."

Virgil laughed humourlessly. "You're telling me."

"Damage control," John instructed, tone leaving no room for argument. "We need to find a way of heading Dad off, since knowing him; he'd have flown completely off the handle."

"Right. You're right, John. Got any ideas?"

In truth, John had none. He was, IQ point wise, the smartest Tracy of the bunch, but this was one of the few times his intelligence had failed him. Still, as the big brother, John had to maintain his aura of being the person that held the key to all the problems in the world, in the same way Scott had done for them.

"Well," John hedged, "Dad will yell, quite a bit, so I guess tuning out, appearing contrite and nodding your head at regular intervals should do the trick."

"Okay. I'll take your word for it." From behind the screen, John could see Virgil's head dip down, and his thick eyebrows pull together to form the monobrow that appeared when he frowned.

"Problem, Virg? Other than the obvious, I mean."

"Yep. Dad's on the other line."

On John's end, the phone beeped audibly.

"Yours too?"

"Yep. Think it's going to be a conference call. Strap yourself in; we're in for a bumpy ride. Going to switch to the other line. I suggest you do the same before he gets antsy. See you in a few."

* * *

The visit had been cut short by a scheduled psychiatric evaluation for Scott. It was a bittersweet parting, as Scott shifted from an armchair into his wheelchair.

"I'm sorry about your arm," he said softly.

"I'm sorry about your legs," she replied, just as soft.

"Well, we all make sacrifices for things we believe in." A pause. "I guess I'll see you when I see you."

"I'm being shipped out in two weeks. I guess I'll catch you on the flip side." A mock salute – the last time he would see it from his junior officer, he realised with a pang, knowing that he was one of the few patients that hadn't been discharged and sent home since their extraction from the camp – and she was gone.

The nurse wheeled him out of his room, and in no time at all, he was back in the white-walled room he loathed so much. With wary eyes trained on the psychiatrist – just Dr. Jung today, Dr. Freud was absent, he noticed with relief – Scott managed to shift himself, once again out of the wheelchair and into the armchair. After the last episode, Scott somehow knew that this session would be just as emotionally intense, if not more. He knew that this would be a further inquiry into his time at the prisoner-of-war camp.

"Well, Scott, how've you been?"

"Good, thank you." Ever the tone of politeness, just to throw the doctor off-track.

"I took a brief look at your medical file; the doctor on duty last night noted that you slept more restfully. I trust that the photographs helped."

"Not in the slightest," Scott replied coolly, although inwardly, he was becoming more and more agitated. This was not a line of questioning he was willing to pursue with the doctor, and he intended to block all further probing into this particular topic. What he had fantasised, in a lucid-dream, was his, and his alone. No one else would be privy to that.

"I imagine it would have brought back many memories." A pause, an open invitation for Scott to talk. It was rejected. Time to try a different tactic. "Who was the person in the second photo? A friend? Girlfriend?"

_Great. The guy can't take a hint. This discussion will not happen; this topic is off limits._

"Was this what you had planned on picking to bits today?" Scott asked evenly, twiddling his thumbs.

"Well, no," Dr. Jung coughed sheepishly. "But, plans are fluid, ever changing. Whatever you want to talk about is the focus for today's session."

"Stick to your plan," Scott demanded, using his military voice that left no room for argument.

Hastily scribbling on his data pad, the doctor noted that Scott was still reluctant to acknowledge the existence of his life before deployment, despite him fighting so hard to gain possession of his photos.

"I guess we'll head back to where we left off from last time." A pause. The doctor reviewed his notes on the screen in front of him. "Scott, I'll be honest with you; I have read compiled reports of some of the atrocities that took place."

Silence. Scott wondered if he should applaud the doctor for at least doing some research into the harsh reality of the situation he had lived through.

"I was particularly interested in one section. One prisoner revealed that the captors offered prisoners food, but you refused to accept it. Why?"

"I'm not a cannibal," Scott replied bluntly, stark in his response. "Above all, no matter how bad it got, I wouldn't allow myself to descend into such savagery."

At the doctor's raised eyebrows, Scott rubbed his hands over his face, wondering where, and how, to begin.

"Food would only ever have been given after a significant execution. I use the term food, loosely. It wasn't food; it was our fallen comrade. They didn't deserve to have their flesh stripped from their bone and be cooked, only to be digested by those they thought were their friends. It wasn't right and it wasn't respectful."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean," Scott sighed, chewed the side of his thumb nervously. "They had given up their life to keep the rest of us alive. If that one person wasn't executed, it could have been someone else. It just… didn't seem right."

"How did you know it was your fallen comrade?"

"We buried the bodies. If there was no body, and then we were given food… well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to work that out."

The doctor felt sick to his stomach, having to listen to this, but he did ask. Swallowing the urge to vomit – he strongly agreed with Scott in the sense that the fallen soul did not deserve to be defiled in such a manner – Dr. Jung knew that as calm and detached as Scott sounded, he must have been fuming at the disservice that was done. As much as he detested the next part, it was his job to get Scott to open up about his feelings. However, that would not be an easy feat; from all their sessions together, it was clear to the psychiatrist that the Lieutenant was a man that preferred to internalise his fears, thoughts and emotions, allowing him to deal with them in his own way, in his own time.

"And how did you feel about that, Scott?"

Scott's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "Well, I was mighty pissed at that. I mean, it's bad enough they were executed, but then to have their bodies dismembered in such a fashion? No. It pissed me off a great deal."

"You're more than… frustrated, aren't you?" Jung ventured out on a limb. "You're angry, Scott. But you're not angry at just the events that took place after you were captured; your resentment lies deeper than that, doesn't it?"

Scott narrowed his eyes even more. Slit like, so it was a wonder he could even see out of it. He was hanging onto his temper with a slender thread. If he was provoked, if the right buttons were pushed, he knew that the thread would snap, and all the emotions he had worked so hard on suppressing would come slipping out like a volcano erupting.

"You dislike the fact that you were targeted in the first place. You know that flight should have been uneventful, but it wasn't. And since you didn't have the advanced technology that the rebel troops have, you weren't able to evade or destroy the missile that sought you out, were you? _That_ is what is making you so angry."

The thread snapped, the buttons pushed. Scott fought hard to control his temper, but he was fighting a losing battle. His lips drew into thin line, pressed so tight they appeared white, his slit like irises darkened from blue to almost black and his hands curled to form fists, nails biting into his skin.

"Angry?" he stated rhetorically, frighteningly and dangerously soft. "Angry? Angry doesn't even _begin_ to cover how I'm feeling! Furious isn't even close! We were screwed over by bureaucratic crap! We came here to give humanitarian aid, as well as protect those that were unable to do so! And what the fuck do we have to show for it! Nothing! Not a fucking, damned thing!" A deep breath, unable to stop his verbal rampage permanently.

"The village the squadron was there to serve – obliterated. Smashed into tiny little pieces. The villagers we were there to protect – dead, or worse. There are children out there who will grow up as orphans, because _we _failed to ensure their safety. And there are more than two hundred and fifty people that have lost their lives, because we were viewed as a threat, and we shouldn't have been."

Another deep breath.

"We had a white background and a red cross emblazoned on the tail of the plane. We had clearly stated that we were on a mission of mercy. We were unarmed, and we posed no threat, and we were _still_ shot out of the Goddamned sky! We should not have been a target. So, saying that I'm _angry?_ That's a bit of an understatement."

Silence from Scott.

Silence from Jung. He had not been expecting Scott to open up, but it seemed that once the flood breaks broke, there was no holding back the flow of words that gushed from his mouth.

"Scott," he began slowly, gauging his patient's reaction. "What you're feeling, the way you're feeling; it's perfectly normal."

Scott merely grunted.

"And you know, you are allowed to grieve for those you feel you lost. That's normal too."

Scott turned his head away, curls falling into his eyes and buried his head into his hands.

_Normal, huh? How would you know what the hell is normal for me? You haven't known me as long as I've known myself. Let me tell you something; crying and grieving, it's not normal for me, especially not in front of an audience. _

Taking it as a sign for dismissal, Dr. Jung opened the door quietly, and left the young Lieutenant alone in the room. He figured Scott was a man who valued some privacy as he broke down the mental and emotional barriers he had built up since his ordeal.


	21. Vexations and Visitations

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Ah, the Muse has decided to grace me with the answer to the bizarreness that was chapter 19. I didn't understand why the Muse was compelled to add that in until this chapter. She's a tricky Muse, letting me scratch my head as I tried to figure out that madness, and then taking off on a vacation over the Christmas break. However, she has returned, at long last. Knew chapter 19 would become clearer in the end.**

Chapter Twenty One – Vexations and Visitations 

Through the twin vid-phone screens, Jefferson Tracy glowered pointedly, grey eyes narrowed so they were barely visible, at his two sons. John gulped, thinking that if his father was a dragon, he would have been breathing fire. Virgil mentally braced himself for the verbal onslaught that was about to occur.

"So," Jeff snarled, swivelling his head between John and Virgil. "So, you think it's amusing to spin Gordon tales about Scott still being alive?"

Virgil immediately opened his mouth to protest the accusation laid against him, but a precipitous shake of John's head caused him to bite down on his tongue, hard, to prevent him from retaliating.

"Do you know how despicable your behaviour is to me?" Jeff thundered, slamming his hand down visibly on the table. "Do you?"

John wondered if it was a rhetorical question.

"Answer me, John Glenn Tracy!"

John glared down at the floorboard in his dorm room; let his mouth betray his mind. "Yes, Sir."

Jeff's baleful glare shifted to Virgil.

Jaw jutting out aggressively, eyes knitted together, as they did when he was upset, angry, or possibly a combination of the two, Virgil nodded.

"You two need to accept the fact that Scott is gone. He is six feet underground, and no amount of wishful thinking will bring him back to us. Just because there is no body inside the coffin, it doesn't mean Scott isn't dead!"

Against his own violation, Virgil's tongue poked out from his lips, another protest ready to roll off. Virgil clamped down on his tongue. Hard.

"The pair of you have to stop this…" Jeff struggled to find an appropriate word, "Obsession you have over Scott. He is _gone_! And to be quite frank, you two need to accept it, as distasteful as it sounds."

No response from either boy. It may have seemed that clear cut and simple to the Tracy patriarch, but to his offspring, the way forward wasn't as easy.

"Gordon was just starting to get back to normal, throwing himself into his schoolwork and swimming, and then the pair of you had to stir this up!" Jeff reverted to the old guilt-trip tactic, knowing it was wrong, and that he would end up owing his two sons an apology, but at that point in time, he could have cared less. "It's two steps forward, three steps back with him; now he's hanging onto hope in a hopeless situation!"

John appeared to look ashamed of himself, which was more than what could have been said for Virgil.

"This behaviour the two of you have been demonstrating will cease immediately!" Jeff demanded of his sons. "Otherwise the pair of you will be brought back to Kansas and you can finish off your education through a correspondence course!"

A threat, one Jeff would never follow through on, but he hoped it would terrify his sons into heeding his advice.

His piece spoken, he terminated the link, leaving John and Virgil to communicate amongst themselves.

"Well, that was fun," John commented sarcastically. "Didn't you find that fun, Virg?"

Sardonically, Virgil raised his eyebrows. "Look at me; I'm laughing. John, why didn't you say anything? You're older than Gordon; he would have listened to you."

"Because," John explained patiently, "he needed to vent his spleen. You saw his facial expressions and heard the rumble of anger in his voice; did you really think he would be rational enough to listen to us?"

Knowing John had made a valid point, Virgil conceded defeat.

"Besides," John continued, raising another point. "This is something that needs to be told to him in person, not over the phone. If we let dust settle before we approach him with this again, and with the backing of Gordon, he'll be more receptive to listen to our beliefs. That's where Gordon went wrong; he insisted on tackling Dad by himself instead of waiting a few weeks for reinforcements."

Mentally exhausted for some reason, Virgil sighed deeply and closed his eyes, carting his hand through his chestnut locks of hair.

"Something else playing on your mind, Virg?" John asked delicately, picking up on Virgil's tension. Knowing Virgil as well as he did, John knew that Virgil would not bother anyone else with his problems unless he was probed about it. At the same time, too much provocation would have the same effect, where Virgil would seal his lips tight, like a clam, and not say a word. The safest bet John could play was allowing Virg to talk if he wanted to, but not push the matter if he didn't.

"Care to share?" John pressed.

Virgil shrugged, non-committal.

"Well, you know where I am if you need me," John concluded.

Tilting his head to the left, Virgil considered John's invitation. "Are you doing anything this weekend?" he asked, surprising John.

Off the top of his head, John knew he had no pressing assignments to finish or any other extracurricular activity over the weekend.

"D'you think I could pop by for a visit?" Virgil asked timidly. To his ears, he had never sounded more vulnerable, open to attack. "I've got a free weekend, and my Monday practical has been cancelled. I've had one or two ideas I want to talk to you about and I want to do it in person."

"Sure," John replied without hesitation. As a big brother, it was his job to look out for his little brothers, and in this situation, Virg needed someone to lean on. John was more than willing to be that someone. "Send me the flight details so I can pick you up from the airport."

"You got it, bro. See you in two day."

"See ya later, Virg."

* * *

His breakdown appeared to have done Scott some good. Not only had it helped him emotionally, as he let go of all the rage and resentment that had been brewing up, it had also aided him in overcoming mental barriers and obstacles he had built up against himself.

Not that it alleviated the guilt he felt, given that so few people had made it out alive, given that they had given their life up in order to keep the rest of their fellow prisoners-in-arms alive. Neither did it exonerate him from the blame he had placed upon himself due to the fact that he was responsible for them dying.

Instead, it had pushed him forward in his mission to regain some control over his life. It had facilitated his ability to try and work through the many physical and psychological issues he was facing, in order to restore some sense of independence to what was now his life, while also ensuring that those who had surrendered their lives to help save him had not died in vain.

Restoring his sense of independence was one of the many reasons Scott hadn't made any attempt to contact his family. He had to make sure that he was able to stand on his own two feet, so to speak, before he would initiate contact with him. It wasn't that he wouldn't have appreciated their attempts to rally around and support him, but he knew that if he did alert his family to the news that he was still alive, they would smother and fuss incessantly around him. No, establishing and asserting his independence had to have been firmly founded before he even contemplated contacting his family.

Squeezing the stress ball in his left hand – it helped ease some of the muscular aches in his body after an intense rehab training session – Scott looked up to the door, where Nurse Jackson stood, guiding two higher ranking officers into the room.

"Well, Colonels, I'll guess I'll leave you to your discussion with Lieutenant Tracy."

Slowly, Scott placed the stress ball on his bedside table, unease flaring up his spine. Authoritative figures didn't instil the same sense of fear and terror as they had done in the prisoner-of-war camp, but until a mutual bond of trust had been formed between the two parties, Scott would treat the newcomers warily.

"Sirs," he said, inclining his head to the two empty chairs.

"Lieutenant," they replied, taking him up on his offer to sit down. With a deep breath, one Commander opened his mouth and began to explain the nature of their visit.

* * *

The weekend had rolled around fast enough, and true to his word, Virgil had flown down to see John. Now they were both back in John's dorm room. A quick look at Virgil had told John that he had been stressing over something; Virgil had lost a considerable amount of body mass - weight was a scientifically incorrect term to use in this case - and there were panda circles under his eyes, indicating that he had not been sleeping well, if at all. John was determined to know what the problem was by the end of Virgil's visit, even if he didn't know how to resolve it. Even if it meant having a deep and meaningful discussion, something John had had little experience of. In the past, if such a discussion was warranted, and that was about as rare as a red moon, all the brothers would defer to Scott.

"Where's your roommate?" Virgil questioned, dumping his small holdall by the front door.

"Out with his latest conquest," John muttered disparagingly, settling down onto the comfy sofa bed that Virgil would be staying on. "We'll have the place to ourselves for another three hours, at least. Now, Virg, what did you want to talk about?"

Hesitation.

Virgil traced his fingernail over the fabric of the sofa, fingers following the strong green line of the tartan as he organised his thoughts.

"If Scott's alive, and I strongly believe he is," Virgil began. "Why hasn't he made contact yet? Does he even care?"

John pondered the question. "Maybe he just doesn't know how," he finally offered as a response.

Virgil snorted.

"Think about it," John continued, ready to defend his argument to the hilt. "Scott went to a warzone – he was bound to change in some respects. And to him, we'd have changed too, if he came back home. Maybe he just doesn't know _how_ to deal with the changes he faced, so it's easier to cut off contact until he's figured it out in his own mind."

"But, John, he has to know we wouldn't care about a few scars," Virgil pointed out, thinking John was talking about physical changes. "Or even one of his legs had been amputated off and he was fitted with a prosthetic. He'd still be my brother, and I would treat him the same way I've always done."

A small smile from John, pearly whites glinting under the dorm lighting. "I'm talking about psychological changes. He's been to a war; he must have seen some bad things that may have had a profound effect on him, and not in a good way."

"He's still my brother," Virgil protested, pouting in a manner that was similar to Alan. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn about any of that."

"But he does," John countered. "Scott cares more deeply than he lets on. Still waters running deep is so appropriate where he's concerned. Look, he'll get in touch when he's well and ready to. Just give him time to sort through things. By the end of the year, I reckon he would have done something to tell us he was still alive."

Virgil held out his pinky finger, reverting to an old, childhood pact he and John shared. "Promise?"

John linked his pinky finger with Virgil, giving it a small shake. "Have I ever been known to break a pinky swear?"

"Twice."

John had forgotten about those incidences.

"And if he doesn't, we'll pool our resources and start an investigation into his whereabouts?" Virgil posed it as a question, but he really meant it as a statement.

"Damn straight we will," John mock saluted. "Start saving up, buddy. Finding missing people is financially expensive, and I don't want us to be running out of money when we're on the cusp of a breakthrough."

"I'll start investing in high interest rate term deposits," Virgil joked, honey-burnt eyes holding a laughing sparkle at the idea.

For a moment or two, the brothers sat in contemplative silence. John didn't mind; living on the East Coast while his family was in the Midwest, he relished any chance he could get to spend with his brothers.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You're my brother, right?"

It seemed like a stupid question, but this was Virgil's way of psyching himself up to launch into more in depth talk with his brother.

"Unless the hospital did an accidental baby swap and we don't know about it, then yes, I'm your brother," John laughed.

"And I can tell you anything?"

"Of course you can," John said, sitting up straight from where he was lounging against the couch cushions.

A deep breath. Virgil hoped his brother would have some fraternal words of wisdom, possibly some reassurances, to let Virgil know he wasn't going insane.

"I've been having some weird dreams lately," Virgil began, chewing on his fingernails, as he did when he was nervous and uncertain – a habit he had picked up from hanging around Scott. If this was something he had to tell Gordon or Alan, Virgil knew that they would have cracked a rib from laughing. John, on the other hand, was more intuitive, and he just sat there, passive, letting Virgil continue.

"If it was once, or even twice, I wouldn't be so… so hung up on it, but it happens almost daily!"

"What is it?" John asked, curiosity well and truly piqued.

"Promise you won't think I'm going whacko?"

"Just tell me; nothing you say could make me think any less of you."

"I dreamt about life in the future," Virgil whispered uneasily. It was imperative that John understood the gravity of what he was about to say next. "But it was more than a dream; it was realistic. It didn't just feel real; it was real."

Silence from John. He didn't know what to say, so he just kept quiet.

"You think I'm losing my mind, don't you?"

"No. No, I don't. Tell me more," John convinced, pulling Virgil's hand away from his mouth before he reduced his fingers to bleeding stumps.

"We were older. Not that much older – about two, maybe three years at best. I had just graduated from DSAT, and Scott had left the Air Force and he was working for US Alliance, you know, the commercial airline. It was great; he had a place in New York, had a stable job and he was happy. More than happy. I could pick up on that."

John raised his eyebrows. Scott not in the Air Force? He wondered where that had come from.

"What about me? Was I at NASA?"

Virgil shook his head. "You weren't a major player, John. It was mainly Scott and I, with a hint of Gordon. Sorry about that. But whatever you were doing, you were happy about it; you had told me that at Scott's wedding. I definitely had that impression in the dream, or whatever it is."

_No surprises there, then,_ John thought to himself.

At that point, Virgil seemed to clam up, afraid that he had said too much, made John too uncomfortable where this was heading. On John's part, it took a lot of poking Virgil to get him talking again.

Had this discussion been with Scott, Virgil was sure he wouldn't have been so uncertain, so guarded. There was an unexplained emotional intimacy between the pair; they were so in tune with each other that they could feed off each other's exhilaration, agonise when one or the other was in pain, without any words being shared between the two.

"We, uh, we talked about why he left the Force."

John raised his eyebrows yet again, held his hands out, a request for Virgil to continue.

Eyes guarded, Virgil stared at John, shaking his head. "It's not my place to say." Virgil, known for being a tight sealed vault at times, was not about to betray a confidence that had been entrusted to him, one in reality or otherwise. In all honesty, John had expected no less from Virgil. As difficult as the situation was, John knew that Virgil's loyalty had been, and would be with Scott until the end of his days.

"Well, what do you think about it?" Virgil queried, his hand sneaking back to his mouth again.

John regarded his little brother, tilting his head from side to side, taking in Virgil from all perspectives. Speaking candidly, he figured, would be the most effective way of expressing his opinions to Virgil.

"I think," he replied slowly, savouring the words. "I think it gives you hope, a hope for a future with Scott in it, and you should hold onto that."

"You don't think I'm nuts?" Saying Virgil was astounded by John's admission would have been an understatement.

"Virg, where Scott and you are concerned," he laughed airily, "I've learnt to keep an open mind. Given how close you are, physically – and by that I mean how tactile you are with each other – mentally and emotionally, I think _anything_ is possible between the pair of you. Even the manifestation of his ideal life through your dreams, which is what I think you experienced. It's a bit freaky, though."

"You think it's freaky, try being in my shoes," Virgil pointed out.

"Virgil, the emotional bond you share with Scott is a unique one," John reassured. "Be honoured that you have it, and just relish in all the positive attributes that come with it."

"What about the negative ones?" Virgil's legs twitched involuntarily, the first time in a while.

"Well, every sweet has a sour."

Another beat of silence. A ribbon of understanding passed between them, carving and sculpting the way they had interacted with each other.

"Hey, John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

It was one word that held a variety of meaning for Virgil. Thanking John for listening. For not flipping out too much when Virgil shared what was playing on his mind. Thanking John for being the big brother he had come to rely on, and had relied on in the past.

"No problem. It's what I'm here for." Rising to his feet, John's stomach grumbled. He rubbed it, grimacing. "Dinner time."

"Excellent; I could eat a bloated horse."

Pulling on a light sweatshirt, John opened up the door, beckoning for Virgil to move. "Come on, we'll get some takeaway. Pizza or Indian?" he asked, closing the door behind him, looking forward to spending time with his little brother.


	22. The End of the Road

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: broken record time, once again. Thank you for leaving the reviews. At the time of beginning this chapter (it's been a busy few weeks, and I've been typing it up slowly) the reply to review wasn't functioning great for me, so I thought I would do it here, just to make sure that they were all acknowledged. **

**Thunderbird5: John does keep everyone grounded. Like the eye in the calm of a storm. Thanks for the review.**

**Sunny: The Muse decided to have that little agreement (alongside the weirdness of chapter 19) to give me a bit of wiggle room for a sequel to this. If people were interested, that is. Thanks for the support and constant reviews.**

**Bubzchoc: Here's hoping you enjoy this chapter as well. Thank you for the reviews.**

**Jimmy Candlestick: Panda circles, the dark circles that appear when one is especially tired. There is a more common name for it, but I can't remember what it is, so I just went with what it reminded me of. Bloated horses does sound gross, but whatever float Virgil's boat… Thanks for all the support/reviews you've left. Here's hoping you enjoy this chapter too.**

**Anyway, enough from me, hope you enjoy the penultimate chapter for this story.**

Chapter Twenty Two – The End of the Road

Heart palpitating violently against his ribcage, Scott drew himself up as tall as he could manage. Another tight squeeze of his stress ball. This time, it was harder to release the foam object in his hand, and Scott had to pry his fingers away from it.

The curtains were drawn, and rain lashed the window pane, the occasional bolt of lightning illuminating the room.

An ominous sign.

Whatever was about to go down wasn't good, Scott concluded.

"Lieutenant," one Colonel began. "I'm Colonel Bellows, and this is Colonel Sanders."

A quick flick of cobalt blue eyes, appraising the visitors.

"We have wanted to come see you for quite some time now," Sanders continued.

Scott still looked suitably unimpressed. Visitors were not something he expected.

"Still, we're here now."

A deep sigh in from the Lieutenant in the chair. "Sir, all due respect, can you please tell me why you're here?"

A shared look between the Colonels. If it was any other officer, they would have viewed the interruption in a bad light, but Lieutenant Tracy was well known within the Air Force community as a man who wouldn't mince his words.

"Lieutenant Tracy, reports of the atrocities and horrors your group faced as a collective have not gone unheard. On the contrary; you were named several times as instrumental in raising morale and instigating the action that allowed you to be released from captivity."

Well, to Scott, that just sounded like they were viewed as animals that had escaped from the local zoo.

"We have read and assessed your actions over the period of time you were captured and held against your free will. In lieu of the circumstances you faced, we, amongst many other senior officers in the Air Force feel that your conduct demonstrated exemplary leadership qualities, strength of character and bravery that went above and beyond the call of duty."

Internally, Scott shrugged his shoulders. He had only done what he felt was right. There had been no going above and beyond the call of duty, as far as he was concerned. He wondered why officials higher up in the Air Force couldn't view his actions in the same way he did.

"Lieutenant Tracy, it is an honour to inform you that you have been awarded with the Congressional Medal of Honour in recognition of your actions during your term of duty."

The superior officers waited to see if their announcement could elicit some emotion from Scott. It didn't; his facial expressions and body language remained as neutral as ever. They couldn't tell if he was overwhelmed, stunned, or even feeling unworthy of the honour that had been given to his name.

The reaction he had, or lack thereof, also took Scott by surprise. Receiving the Medal of Honour was a monumental event. It was what most people Scott knew in the Air Force dreamed of achieving. Now that he had reached what most people aspired towards, Scott thought he would have had some emotive reaction towards the news.

But no.

There was nothing. No pride, anger or resentment towards the award.

He wondered why.

_Because it wasn't meant to be this way,_ a small voice reasoned in his head. _This isn't what you wanted. If you were going to receive the Medal of Honour, you'd want it for a feat of heroic flying, or for saving your squadron from immediate danger. But not for this. Not when many of your friends have died to save your sorry ass. Not when you let them down. Not like this._

"In addition to that," Colonel Sanders picked up where he left off, "We're here to present you with your Purple Heart, for recognition of your wounds gained during your time of service with the United States Air Force."

The box that contained the medal was pulled out from one of the Colonels, and the other pinned it onto the t-shirt that Scott was wearing. The empty box was placed into Scott's lap. Scott looked up at both senior officers, blue eyes glacier like, expression unreadable.

Confusion battled within him. Did he deserve the awards, the medals that had been pinned to his name?

The USAF thought so.

Scott didn't. Not at the expense of so many lives. Not for what he did, or rather, didn't do.

"The awards ceremony will be held once you have been discharged from medical care and returned stateside."

Another perceptive shrug from Scott. Inside, he panicked. Awards ceremony, that would mean there would be a flock of media. Media, that would mean television broadcasts, radio broadcasts and newspaper articles by the boatload. How the hell was he meant to stay hidden from his family if that happened?

_So much for wanting to assert my independence, see if I could make it through life on my own, without them mollycoddling me all the time._

One way or another, his life had taken a complicated turn.

There was more, Scott could sense. The Colonels that stood in front of him, tall enough so he had to crane his head to look up at them. They cleared their throat in tandem, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Neither one seemed to want to continue.

Finally, Colonel Bellows took the initiative. "Lieutenant Tracy, it is also out painful duty to inform you that the awards ceremony will be your last official affiliation with the Air Force. Due to your incapacitation in the line of duty, you have been issued with an honourable discharge from the Air Force."

Still no reaction from Scott. He wasn't surprised; he had pretty much resigned himself to that fact once he had learnt that his paralysis was permanent. He knew it was coming; he was many things, but he wasn't stupid or slow on the uptake. In fact, secure in the knowledge that his career with the Air Force as a pilot was over, he had begun to make alternative arrangements. The legalities that had been associated with Scott being presumed as killed in action had been sorted, and his assets, accounts and other financial portfolios had been unfrozen. During the gaps between his appointments, he used a Datapad to connect to the internet to find a place he could afford to live in, one that was as far away from Kansas as possible. Hawaii seemed to be the most logical place to go. A few clicks and a security deposit later, and he was the proud owner of a one-bedroomed flat. His civilian life was beginning to become a tangible reality.

"It is with deep sorrow and regret that the United States Air Force has had to issue that, but you have served your country with diligent duty and care."

A sharp salute to Scott, and the two men turned around, sharply, and marched out of the door.

* * *

Two weeks had passed since Gordon had attempted to inform his father that Scott was still alive. Two long weeks, dragging on as day bled into night to turn back into day again.

Today was the day the ginger had been dreading.

For the past two weeks, newspapers, radios and television stations had all been broadcasting the news that Lieutenant Scott Tracy would be awarded with the Medal of Honour, the highest military decoration awarded to members of the defence force.

The first time his father had heard that, he had initiated a blanket ban all on incoming broadcasts in the Tracy household. As a result, the internet, television signal and radio had been temporarily cut-off from the house. Until he had heard definite confirmation that Scott was alive, preferably from his son, Jeff wouldn't hear of anything else. It was just too painful for him. Jeff was through with the Air Force; they had cost him his eldest son, and he wanted nothing more to do with them.

Gordon, naturally, disagreed, but Jefferson Tracy could not be persuaded. As head honcho of the Tracy family, his word was law. It was a point of contention for both parties.

Alan, being the other Tracy son that lived at home, was caught up in the middle of it all. Having not been told that Scott was still alive – John, Virgil and Gordon had all agreed that they shouldn't raise Alan's hopes, until they had substantial proof from Scott himself – the littlest towhead of the lot couldn't make heads or tails of Gordon's behaviour. Tensions brewed, lava bubbling below the surface of a volcano.

The volcano erupted the day of the awards ceremony.

Alan had tracked Gordon into the kitchen, where the red-head sat, sulking at the bench top.

"Why're you acting like this, Gordon?" Alan had demanded of his elder brother.

"Like what?" Gordon responded mulishly, jaw jutting out aggressively.

"Like… this!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gordon replied, although he knew exactly what Alan was talking about.

"Are you so stupid that you can't even see what you're doing to Dad?"

The bar stool legs scraped against the tiled kitchen floor. Gordon got slowly to his feet, placing one foot solidly on the ground, thud echoing off the walls, before his other foot followed suit. He drew himself up to his full height, towered over Alan.

"You little twerp," he hissed, voice full of venom. "You know jackshit about _anything_, so don't stand there and lecture me on the way to behave. If anyone's acting like a petulant child, it's our esteemed father."

A menacing step towards Alan. Alan quaked, but stood his ground.

"And just for the record," Gordon took another menacing step towards Alan, shoving him in his chest cavity. Alan, caught unawares, landed on his butt with a thud. "I am far from stupid!"

Demoted to sitting on the ground, Alan did the only thing he could have done as a little brother. He hollered for their father. "Dad! Gordon pushed me!"

Jefferson Tracy thundered down the stairs, finally emerging from his study, where he had locked himself away for the past two weeks. Taking one look at the scene in front of him, with Alan on the ground, gingerly rubbing his posterior, and Gordon standing with his hands outstretched, uncharacteristic harsh scowl etched into his face, he took charge of the situation.

"Gordon!" he bellowed, gesticulating in the direction of the stars. "Your room! On the double!"

Gordon stood his ground, arms crossed against his chest, challenging Jeff's authority.

"Now, Gordon Cooper Tracy!"

Gordon flurried out of the room, careful to give Alan a wide berth so he didn't get into more trouble with his father.

"I don't know what's gotten into that boy," Jeff muttered to himself, making sure that Alan hadn't suffered more than a few bumps and bruises. Rising back to his feet, Jeff then made his way back to Gordon's room.

Closing the door behind him, the greying man sat down at the foot the bed. Gordon ignored Jeff's presence, choosing to burrow his head under one of the many pillows that decorated the head of his bed.

"Gordon?" Jeff tried to talk gently to the fourth eldest son, despite the ire he felt towards him.

Gordon steadfastly ignored his father. He was afraid that the anger he felt towards the patriarch would overflow, and he would end up saying or acting in a manner that he would regret later. It was safer not to say anything at all.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, Gordon," Jeff ordered, wrestling the pillow away from his son.

Gordon reluctantly lifted his head, amber eyes meeting stormy grey ones.

"This attitude of yours has to stop, Gordon," Jeff enforced. "You're a man, and a Tracy man no less. You have to start acting like one."

Gordon grunted, which only served to fuel Jeff's ire some more.

"Same could be said for you, Dad," Gordon muttered, the filter between his brain and his mouth failing him.

"And what do you mean by that, boy? If you've got something to say, then you'd better damn well say it!"

A pointed look at Jeff. The older man knew exactly what Gordon was conveying. So they were back to this again. It wasn't that Jeff didn't want to believe that his son was alive; it was just that he didn't believe in raising his hopes, truly believing that his eldest son was alive, only to have them dashed due to a clerical error that had been made, or something of the sort. Knowing their current stretch of luck, it was the most probable situation he could come up with.

No, he wanted proof from Scott himself. Until he could physically hold Scott, embrace his eldest in a hug, feel the heavy weight of his son resting in his arms, he wouldn't believe that Scott was still alive. It was less emotionally draining that way. He had gone to pieces after Lucille died; he knew it would be worse if he thought that Scott was alive, and it turned out to be a mistake. Rumours were rumours, and with no substantiated evidence, Jeff was not about to believe any of it.

Anger bloomed at Gordon for not letting the subject rest, like a sleeping dog. "Listen to me, Gordon. This is getting old and boring. Scott left us one and a half years ago. There is no definitive proof that he will be coming back to us. Move on."

A deep breath.

A duck of his head, unable to see the incredulous look of disbelief that had crept into Gordon's eyes.

"I don't tolerate violence in this family, especially not towards your little brother. Consequently, you will be punished for it. There will be no television, internet or radio for you for the next month. There will be no pool for you over the next two weeks. You will come straight home from school and stay in your room and complete your assignments. No detours on the way home. This is effective immediately. Do you understand?"

Gordon nodded sullenly, moved to his desk to start on some schoolwork. Satisfied, Jeff left the room, closing the door behind him and retreated back to his office.

The awards ceremony that honoured their brother or son was overshadowed by the spat between Gordon, Alan and Jeff.

The day passed in the Tracy household without a second thought to the ceremony that was taking place.

The one piece of solid evidence that could have convinced Jeff that his son was alive and still in existence was barred from the Tracy household. Within a few hours, it became all but a distant memory, niggling away in the back of Gordon's mind.


	23. The End and the Beginning

**Disclaimer: see chapter one**

**AN: Well, this is it. The last chapter. It's taken three years to complete, and I'm feeling okay about letting this story go. I'm actually feeling pretty relieved that I've finally finished it! I've got to say, having written the ending before the beginning, it feels good to have finally, after ages of waiting, to have reached this point. Having said that, this ending also gives me a bit of wiggle room if people want a sequel to this… :)  
**

**Thanks to everyone that's stuck along for the ride (with long hiatus due to life, last year of school and the beginning of uni). Your support and just leaving me reviews to kick my butt into gear with this has been more appreciated than words can say. **

Chapter Twenty Three – The End and the Beginning

It had been inevitable, but Lieutenant Scott Tracy – yes, he was still a member of the Air Force until zero hundred hours the next morning after his Medal of Honour ceremony – had been discharged from the hospital he had spent four months of his life recovering, recuperating and readjusting to civilian life as a paraplegic. His farewell from the hospital had been bittersweet and emotionally draining, even though Scott himself had tried to keep the tone light and airy.

"Bet you're not sorry to see the back of me," Scott had commented to Doctor Burns as she filled out his discharge information on a Datapad.

"On the contrary," she had replied, surprising him. "I will miss taking care of you. I've seen you pull yourself out of a pit of depression, with help, admittedly. I've watched you fight to regain as much independence as you can achieve, and I've seen you make the best of the fate you've been dealt with. I will miss your company, and I'll miss spending time in the company of someone I admire and respect greatly."

"That, Doc, is the most honest thing I've heard in a while," Scott had parried back, while scrawling his name on a soft copy of a form.

"Think Nurse Jackson'll miss you the most, though," she said, flicking her head in the direction of the person in question. "She really took a shine to you. I'd go as far as to say she developed a crush on you."

"She'll get over it. As much as it pains me to say this, it's true. I'm just one of the many droves of men and women that'll end up in here."

A moment of sobering silence.

"Doctor Burns?"

She looked up at her patient, who was sitting patiently in his wheelchair, what meagre possessions he still held stored in a duffel bag on his lap.

"I... err... I just wanted to say thanks for everything you've done for me. I know I wasn't the most amenable patient in the beginning, but the fact that you didn't give up on me, even when I had given up on myself, it means a lot."

With his orders and discharge papers drawn, Scott was finally allowed to leave Bereznik on a flight that would take him Stateside.

* * *

It had been a fortnight coming, but the day of Lieutenant Tracy's awards ceremony was finally upon them. Through no fault of their own, none of his brothers would be able to bear witness to this event.

John, unfortunately, had a Laser Communications lecture and subsequent exam throughout the duration of the event, and he would miss the special news report that would outline what occurred during the ceremony. Life still went on for him, preventing him from sitting behind the television screen to hear, second hand, just how events had unfolded. As a small consolation, he had set the newscast to record, so he could watch it later. Unless his idiot of a room mate overwrote the minidisc before he could watch it. That, John knew, would officially suck.

Virgil, on the other hand, was perfectly capable of watching the televised news report. And he would, he honestly would have, but it was unheard of for Virgil waking up before two in the afternoon on his days off from college. A news bulletin late at night would have to suffice his curiosity.

With the blanket ban enforced within the Tracy household, neither Gordon nor Alan knew more than that their brother would supposedly receive the highest honour anyone could receive in the Armed Forces. Alan, still kept in the dark about Scott being alive, believed the whole thing to be a hoax. He was outraged that someone would try to sully Scott's name and memory, by bequeathing on him an award that Scott never received. Alan wholeheartedly supported his father's decision to enforce a blanket ban on all incoming broadcasts. If only he knew…

Gordon, on the other hand, disagreed with Jeff's decision, but he knew that there was nothing he could do about it. With his swimming, senior year in school and an active social life, Gordon found that he had little time to dwell on what he was missing. It was a good thing, he had told himself, trying to make himself feel better.

After arriving back home from school, Gordon dumped his bag at the foot of the stairs and headed to the teenage rec room at the back of the house.

"Al, I'm home," he called out. "Dad back from the office yet?"

"Nope."

Following the sound of his little brother's voice, Gordon found the towhead sitting cross legged on the floor, Datapad balancing on his knee.

"Whatcha doing, Al?" Gordon asked, lowering himself down beside Alan on the floor. A cursory glance at the LED screen of the Datapad gave Gordon his answer. Frozen in time, was a digital copy of the photo John had given Scott before he left, eons ago.

"Oh, Alan," Gordon sighed.

"I miss him," Alan stated simply. "Gordon, he's really gone, isn't he? He's not coming back."

Gordon debated, internally, about letting Alan in on the news that Scott was still alive, before deciding against it. Alan would have thrown a temper tantrum, demanding to know why he hadn't been told earlier. He would have kicked up a fuss, before tattling to their father. It would have caused far too much heartache, for all of them.

Acceptance seemed the best option, for both of them.

"No, Al, he's not coming back. We'll have to go on without him."

* * *

The award ceremony was much like the Air Force itself, simple, concise and straight to the point. Scott had sat to attention, impassive, no flicker of emotion evident on his face. Duly, the medal had been placed around his neck, resting heavily on his shoulders. It was a stark reminder of what his survival had cost, a burden for him to bear for the rest of his life, guilt he would carry with him until his dying day.

With the official part of the day completed, Scott's squadron had moved into a smaller function room, continuing to celebrate in the honour that had been bestowed onto their equal officer, and friend.

Tired of the festivities that were going on around him, and needing some time to himself, Scott had wheeled himself over to a corner of the room.

"They haven't driven you away, have they, Lieutenant?"

Scott craned his neck upward, surprised that he had company. Looming over his was the Captain of the Squadron. His boss.

"No, no, not at all. I just needed some time for me," Scott replied, relaxing slightly.

"We'll be sorry to see you go," the Captain continued, dragging a chair to sit beside Scott. "You are a huge part of this squadron. It won't be the same without you."

"I'm sorry to go, but it is what it is. We all make sacrifices."

"So, what are your plans for civilian life?"

Shifting in his seat to get more comfortable, Scott replied, "Well, I've got a place waiting for me in Hawaii, so I thought I'd just see how it goes from there. I'm leaving tomorrow, with a stopover in Denver."

A beat of silence. It was clear to Scott that his Captain was coming up with a suggestion.

"You know, Scott, I could transfer you within the Air Force community so that you'd be working on the ground instead."

Scott's mouth twisted, halfway between a grimace and a grin. He was honoured that his boss would try and keep him employed by the Air Force, but he knew, deep down, that he would have to respectfully decline.

"Captain, I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but it's not what I want. I want to do the job I've been commissioned for, because I know I can do that job well. I know I can do a damn good job at flying. But I can't fly anymore. Now, I just want to go out there and find something else I can do, something else I'm good at."

The Captain nodded in understanding. "And your brothers?"

"Are not in the picture," Scott replied easily, feeling a knot tighten in his chest. For some reason unknown to him, the comment had sparked a memory from when he and Virgil were both kids. When they wanted to communicate without anyone knowing what they were saying, they used to write notes in lemon juice. Invisible ink, they called it, since the juice wouldn't show up on white paper. Then they would burn the paper to see what the other person had written. It was a source of amusement that could keep them entertained for hours on end.

A call from the centre of the room drew Scott out of his reverie. With a quick glance to his superior officer, who dismissed the Lieutenant with a curt nod, Scott re-joined the group, spending his last hours as a commissioned officer with his comrades.

* * *

Rain pelted down on Virgil Tracy as he made his way back to his place of residence. Opting to not live on Denver Tech's campus meant that he had to brave all elements to get from college to home. Hefting his book bag higher up onto his shoulder, head bowed to the ground, he wished that he had remembered to take an umbrella with him.

_Still_, he grumbled internally, _there's not much I can do about it now. Now, to head upstairs and watch yesterday's recorded news bulletin. I want to know everything I can know over Scott getting his award._

He pulled out his keys as he approached the vestibule of his dwellings. Momentarily, he stopped at the old fashioned mail boxes that were mounted on the wall inside the foyer. Even though everything was sent through soft copies and emails, Virgil still liked the novelty of having a letter box to check every now and again. Not expecting to find anything, he pulled a small white envelope out in surprise. Curiosity piqued, he gingerly lifted the flap open and pulled out the letter's contents.

In his hand was a folded piece of paper and a photograph he hadn't seen in a long time. It was one of the last few family photos that existed with their mother included in it. To Virgil's knowledge, Scott was the only person who had this in his possession.

"Scott!" Virgil breathed out, daring to hope. Dumping his bag on the ground, scurrying outside into the pouring rain, Virgil scoured his surroundings. Swivelling his head from left to right, he kept his eyes peeled open for any sign of Scott. Virgil was fully expecting his brother to appear before him, Scott's blue eyes shining at the sight of family.

No such luck.

There was no one in sight. Nothing to the left, and only a shadow in a wheelchair disappearing around the corner on the right.

The paper in his hand began to mush, disintegrate before his eyes. It was beyond repair; no amount of drying the paper and sticky taping it back together could revive it. Virgil stared down at the white flecks coating his hand before sighing regretfully. Scraping the ripped paper off his hands onto the pavement below, pocketing the photo, Virgil thought that, for one year, whatever was in the note really didn't matter.


End file.
